


Ours is the Fury

by calistabista



Series: By Her Hand [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-04-30 15:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14500242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calistabista/pseuds/calistabista
Summary: Sansa burns Winterfell as the Night King approaches. Somehow, her story continues. Pt. II





	1. The Rose of Highgarden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognizable dialogue is from “Oathbreaker!” and A Clash of Kings. Enjoy!

Loras had told her that Renly was as fair as the day was long. But Margaery knew better than to take her brother at his word, not when the man was wet with love. Still she had not been displeased when she set eyes on her future King and husband. He was a fine man with an easy smile and laughing eyes. It was not hard to see why the Stormlords had flocked to his side in lieu of the sterner Stannis. And Renly did look so lovely in green.

_“What does he want?”_ She had asked Loras, pouring over a dozen new gowns laid out in her chambers, each telling a different story.

_“A queen,”_ her brother had answered. _“He needs a queen.”_

_“A queen.”_ The word tasted like a bite of ripe fireplum, flooding her mouth with sweetness. _I want to be the Queen._

And so Margaery had chosen azure silks that Loras assured her matched the sunlit sea blue of his lover’s eyes, paired with verdant velvet embroidered with gold thread. In her hair, she placed a crown of fresh roses that Elinor and Alla had fashioned in the garden, sucking their thumbs where they were pricked by thorns.

“Your beauty would make the Maiden herself weep with wonder, my lady,” Renly said when he laid eyes on her. He kissed her hand with the lightest brush of his lips.

_But not you, my lord?”_

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” said Margaery, easily.

“Your Grace,” Renly repeated, savoring the words. His eyes darted to the roses on her head, and he called for his steward. “My bride shall not wear a mummer’s crown atop her head. A gift for you, my lady.”

Elinor hurried to lift the roses from Margaery’s head, and in its place, Renly Baratheon placed a gold diadem made to look like twisting vines, inlaid with emeralds.

There were other gifts as well. Chest after chest was opened to reveal skeins of silk, wool, and gold cloth, silver rings and golden pendants, milky pearls that her betrothed swore had been given to the Storm King’s of old by the merwives in Shipbreaker Bay. Among the jewels, Margaery noted finely carved jade turtles, surely from Cassana Estermont, and a curious circlet with three rubies inlaid in the fine silver.  

“The treasure of a Targaryen Princess,” Renly boasted. “My grandmother’s.”

Margaery’s father fairly quivered when Renly said the words, his chair creaking as leaned forward to catch a glimpse. Loras had only needed to water the seeds of ambition in their father’s head to ensure the bloom of an alliance with the Baratheons. The Tyrells had never been kings, and the idea that his grandson might one day sit upon the Iron Throne roused Mace to offer every sword in the Reach if it meant a crown on Renly’s head, its twin on Margaery’s brow.

Margaery tilted the circlet in her hands so that the rubies caught the morning light. They glowed like embers, burning low in the ashes.

_“Baratheons have always had strange notions,”_ Olenna has smiled when Mance brought Renly’s intentions to her. _“It comes from their dragon’s blood, to be sure.”_

_“Grandmother - ”_ Margaery had said soothingly.

_“Our sweetling will be Queen,”_ her father insisted. _“My grandson will be King of the Seven Kingdoms.”_

_“With an elder brother, and Robert’s heirs?”_ said Olenna. _“I should think not.”_

_“The boys are bastards, and Stannis hardly engenders the love of the people,”_ dismissed Mace. _“The Storm lords have already declared for Renly, and with the swords of the Reach behind him, his success is assured.”_

_“As I recall, Stannis Baratheon bested you with nary a single sword when you laid siege on Storm's End,”_ grunted her grandmother. _“Merely rats and onions.”_

But there seemed to be no place for the past among the blooming roses of Highgarden. All of Renly’s knights seemed to be as green as he and Loras, radiant in their vigorous youth. The future lay before them like a summer harvest, dazzling in its bounty and splendor.

And Margaery would be there to meet it.

_“If you means to be a people’s queen, then they must see nothing less than a queen when they look upon you,”_ Olenna had told her, cupping Margaery’s chin as she did.

Margaery smiled.

No expense was spared for the wedding day. Little Alysanne almost fainted with delight when Margaery emerged from her bedchamber, draped in shimmering ivory silks shot through with thread of gold in patterns of climbing vines and blooming roses. The bodice was heavy samite silk that dipped low and clung to her skin. A gossamer cendal cape of the finest silk cascaded about her shoulders. A hundred fresh golden roses had been sewn to the body and hem of her skirt. Another seven were woven into her braids, amongst the pearl and emerald pins tha decorated her hair.

“You would please any lord in the Seven Kingdoms,” sighed Megga.

“Not a lord,” declared Elinor. “Margaery shall please a _King.”_

Margaery only smiled and tossed her head so that her emerald and crystal earrings caught the sunlight streaming through the window.

Across her shoulders they placed her maiden’s cloak of lambswool, green as the first leaves of spring. A hundred hands had been at work over the past moon’s turn, spinning the finest wool with golden thread. As Margaery walked up to the sept on her father’s arm, it fanned behind her covering the marble steps. Alla and Alysanne looked so dear in their matching taffeta dresses as they lifted the edges of Margaery’s cloak, beaming and trying not to trip.

Every lord and lady stood when Margaery glided through the glittering crystal archway of Highgarden’s sept. She paused for a moment, lifting her face so that it was awash in the rainbows from the sunlight streaming through the crystal. Several ladies gasped.   

But her king was waiting for her, looking half a god himself. He was dressed in a fine black velvet doublet, slashed to reveal the yellow silks beneath. Under his arm, he carried his great golden horned helm. Loras stood beside him, glittering in his silver breastplate encrusted with sapphires.

Then she was turning to kiss her father’s cheek as he took the maiden’s cloak from her shoulders. For a moment she was bare, and then Renly covered her with the heavy weight of the Baratheon colors.   

The corner of Margaery’s mouth twitched. _Should it not be me who covers your back?_ She had seen the grand armor that Renly had commissioned in King’s Landing. It was not the colors of the stag that he had chosen, but the colors of the rose.

They knelt before the seven pointed star and the old wizen septon who began at once to drone on about the sanctity of vows given before the Seven. Margaery scarcely paid attention to the words he spoke. She fixed her eyes on the jeweled brow of the Maiden.

_“... may the gods bless this union,”_ called the Septon.

She took the hand that Renly offered her.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Renly stated firmly, his hand coming up to caress the rose at her ear.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Margaery replied. She smiled under the chaste kiss he gave her.

_“They are one flesh, one soul, now and forever,”_ declared the Septon.

They turned to face the acclamation of the crowd. Margaery spotted her mother dabbing tears from her eyes, her father blubbered beside her. And her grandmother surveyed her, gifting her a sharp nod of approval.

She looked up at her new husband. A careless grin had split his face with an easy grace, and he waved to the adoring crowd. Margaery felt it too, the cries of the people made the blood sing in her veins, made her heart swell to bursting with the pleasure of it all.

The feast was a blur of bright colors and indulgence. Two dozen tents fashioned of fluttering silks had been raised in the main gardens. Fresh flowers dripped from the rafters, and crystal chandeliers hung low over the delicacy-laden tables.

There were piles of fresh melons, peaches, apples, grapes, and fireplums, so ripe they split and spilled their juices, darkening the white damask tablecloths with sticky juices. Pitchers of dry fruity reds and rich golden wines sent straight from the Arbor’s finest stores. Sticky honey cakes,  bright lemon pastries, cream puffs in the shapes of swans filled to bursting with cream, sweet rosehip soup, tart grape pie, roasted peacock with saffron, still draped in its regal feathers, edible blossoms dipped in honey and crusted with sugar. The cooks had even roasted a boar whole, one half painted green with a mash of parsley, and the other half papered in gold leaf.

Margaery shrieked and clapped in delight as Renly put his sword through the wedding pie, releasing a hundred nightingales into the summer skies. Her husband selected only the finest bites from his plate, and offered them to her on the point of his knife. She took them delicately with her teeth, smiling at him all the while. He lightly kissed her cheek, and then turned back to Loras, sharing soft words and jests with her brother.

Just as the guests were beginning to grow drowsy from their gluttonous indulgences, the fiddlers struck up a jaunty tune, and the lords and ladies spilled onto the lawn to dance by the evening light. Renly was a wonderful dancer. He spun her in dizzying circles as she laughed, and lifted her high in the air to the delight and adoration of the crowd.

Soon it seemed she had taken the hand of every lord in attendance. Her feet ached in her lovely slippers, and so she kicked them off, much to the consternation of her mother. Janna shrieked when she saw what Margaery had done, and Elinor only laughed. Alla followed suit at once, throwing her stockings and slippers into the bushes. She ran to Margaery, and Margaery seized her hands, spinning them barefoot across the trampled grass. When she could dance no more, she sent Alla off with a kiss and a rose in her hair. She spotted Willas, and collapsed beside him. Her brother was watching the dancing with a gentle expression on his handsome face. Margaery sighed and rested her heavy head on her brother’s shoulder.

“I haven’t told you have beautiful you looked today,” said Willas, patting her hand.

“Are you trying to flatter your little sister, or your future queen?’ Margaery teased. “Truly it was my silks and jewels that did the bulk of the work.” She pulled a pearl pin from her curls. It had been poking her rather magnanimously all day. “Would it be improper of the bride to let her hair down before the end of the evening?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Willas, looking thoughtful. “But I imagine a Queen decides these things for herself.”

“Not if that Queen has a watchful mother,” said Margaery, glancing at where Alerie was laughing with her sisters.

“Mother just wants everything to go splendidly for you,” said Willas. “She wants you to be happy.” He was quiet for a moment. “Are you happy, sister?”

_Yes,_ hung heavy from her lips, heavy with satisfaction. But before she could speak, she caught sight of red silks. Her heart leapt, and she stood at once.

“Very happy,” she assured Willas, kissing his cheek. “I’m sorry dear heart, but you must excuse me…”

She made her way through the lively crowd, lords and ladies tipsy with pleasure in the twilight. Garlan tried to draw her into a dance, but she pushed him in the direction of Megga. Garlan pulled Megga up to balance on his boots, and spun them round and round. Megga shrieked with joy.

But Margaery only had eyes for the girl in the scarlet silks of House Ashford. Helena Ashford leaned against a marble pillar at the edge of the garden, her honey blonde curls tumbling in the warm breeze.

“My lady,” said Helena, when she spotted Margaery. She swept a low curtsey.

“Lady Ashford,” said Margaery, with a dip of her head.

They had said the same to each other when they were naught but children playing come-into-my-castle.

_“Hark, who goes there?”_

_“It is I, Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, here to see the Lady Helena of House Ashford.”_

_“You may pass, my lady, but only if you can name the words of House Ashford.”_

_“Our Sun Shines Bright!”_

“Walk with me, Helena,” said Margaery gaily, taking Helena’s arm. “It’s been so long since I looked upon your sweet features.”

Helena’s cheeks darkened. “You flatter me, my lady. I would be honored.”

They strolled through the gardens, the scent of roses thick on the summer air.

“Wasn’t it splendid?” asked Margaery beaming. “Father had them cut ten thousand roses to decorate the sept, and cooks have been working for _days_ to ensure that we had enough food to feed everyone.”

“Very splendid, my lady,” agreed Helena.

Margaery drew them into a hidden alcove, and took Helena’s hand. “Tell me, darling. How have you been? How is your mother? Has that silly Lord Shermer proposed yet?”

“Mother is well, the babe’s just weaned.” Helena’s eyes crinkled at the corner when she smiled. “He’s a fussy little thing, but he’s got mine and father’s eyes. Mother’s sure that he’ll be quite a handsome little fellow. And Lord Owen asked Father for my hand two moons ago.” As Helena said the last, her eyes brightened.

Margaery clapped her hands together in delight. Privately, she thought the Shermer boy was a bit dull, but he seemed sweet and kind. He had sent over three dozen honey cakes for Helena’s last nameday, her favorite. She and Margaery had devoured them, giggling and licking the honey from their fingers.

“You must marry at once,” declared Margaery. _How lovely Helena would look, a blush on her cheeks as she walked through the sept in her wedding gown._ “For I must tell you, I mean for you to accompany me to King’s Landing. I shan’t bear it without you by my side.”

She had thought that Helena’s eyes would light up at the suggestion, that she would glow at the thought of joining a Queen’s court. Instead, Helena looked down, and worried at her lip.

“I am honored, my lady, truly. But when I marry, I will be the Lady of Smithyton. I must acquaint myself with the house and the grounds, if I am to be a good wife to Owen. And dear Owen is so excited for our children.”

“You can join me once you are with child,” bid Margaery. “Our children will fill the halls of the Red Keep with their laughter.”

Helena hesitated, twisting her fingers nervously in her lap. “If my Queen commands it.”

The smile slipped from Margaery’s face like she had been struck a blow.

_When Margaery had first laid eyes on Lord Ashford’s eldest daughter, she had thought herself jealous of the girl’s golden curls, blue eyes, and rosebud mouth. It had taken Margaery three years to realize that she hadn’t been jealous of Helena at all. She’d only not had the words to describe what she truly wanted._  

Helena still hadn’t met her eyes. Margaery recovered herself, schooling her features into a queenly mask.

“I only thought you might enjoy the amusements of the Capital,” said Margaery, gently. “But of course I understand, your duty is to your husband’s house.”

_“My cousin told me that Lord Wythers kissed her behind the kitchen, and put his hand down her bodice,” whispered Helena. Her and Margaery slapped their hands over their mouths to muffle their giggles._

_Helena’s eyes were very blue in the darkness of the bedchamber, and her cheeks were pink from laughter. Under Margaery’s gaze, Helena turned pinker and pinker._

_“We might try,” Helena offered._

_Margaery knew of the kissing game, and the exquisite wickedness of it. She had heard the steward’s daughters giggling over it one day, how one had spun a glass and kissed the butcher’s boy it landed on._

_“Yes, we might,” Margaery agreed._

_Helena’s lips had been softer than the underside of a rose._

Helena looked relieved. “Thank you, my lady.” She took Margaery’s hand, and squeezed it.

_“Run,” squealed Helena, seizing Margaery’s hand. They stuffed the stolen pastries from the kitchen in the pocket of their skirts and ran._

_“Lady Ashford,” gasped her Septa, almost swooning in horror. “How dare you set such an example for your guest… what shall the Tyrells think of us - ”_

_Later when the pastries had been eaten, and they lay, sheltered in the godswood of Ashford Castle, Margaery had rolled atop Helena and kissed her until they were both breathless._

_“I think you’re wonderful,” said Margaery, kissing the shell of Helena's ear._

“I fear I must return,” said Margaery, gently extracting her hand from Helena’s. “My husband will surely be looking for me. My brothers will want the bedding done before too many lords are too far in their cups. Otherwise Loras and Garlan may have to temper wandering hands with steel.”

“I shall come back with you,” said Helena. “I promised Owen that we might explore the briar maze by moonlight.”

Helena curtsied once more as she and Margaery stepped back into the garden. “My lady, it has been a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Ashford,” said Margaery. The words felt swollen in her mouth. “Or might I say, Lady Shermer.”

Helena  smiled brightly, and disappeared into the glittering crowd.

Margaery climbed the dais steps to the High Table, from where her husband’s booming laughed issued. She sat beside her grandmother, who took her hand in her soft, wrinkled ones.

“You’ve done well, my dear,” said Olenna. “A more beautiful bride has never graced the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Thank you, Grandmother.” Margaery smiled slightly. “Though I hear you were quite the beauty when you wed Grandfather.’

“Hmph,” dismissed Olenna. “It surely wasn’t my face that ensnared your grandfather. I wasn’t originally supposed to marry Luthor, you know. He was engaged to my sister, Viola. I was to be given to some Targaryen or other, Marrying a Targaryen was all the rage back then. But the moment  I saw my intended with his twitchy little ferret’s face and ludicrous silver hair, I knew he wouldn’t do. So the evening before Luthor was to propose to my sister, I got lost on the way back from my embroidery lesson and happened upon his chamber.”

Margaery smiled indulgently. She had heard this story many times.

“How absent minded of me,” Olenna tsked with a shake of her head. “The following morning, Luthor never made it down the stairs to propose to my sister because the boy couldn’t bloody walk. And once he could, the only thing he wanted was what I’d given him the night before. I was good. I was quite good.” She leaned forward and dropped a kiss on Margaery’s head. “But you, my darling child, are even better.”

“I - ” began Margaery, but she was interrupted by Loras banging his goblet on the table.

“A toast to my bride,” shouted Renly, standing and lifting his cup into the hair. “A toast to to Highgarden, to the Reach, to the Seven Kingdoms united again!” He smiled down at Margaery, and she returned it.  

“My friends, there are glorious days ahead of us,” Renly cried. “Our marriage joins together the most powerful kingdoms in all of Westeros. Together, we shall rise from beneath tyranny and slay our enemies.” He flashed another grin down at Margaery. “To the Rose of Highgarden!”

“TO THE ROSE OF HIGHGARDEN!” bellowed the men.

Olenna watched the proceedings, running one finger around the edge of her wine glass. “It seems to me that the boy’s more interested in thorns than petals.”

_“Grandmother,”_ hissed Margaery.

“Don’t you scold me, child,” sniffed Olenna. “I only meant _your_ thorns. All eighty-thousand of them.”

Renly seemed satisfied with the passion he had inspired, and sat down again. But Margaery saw immediately, that it would not do. No longer were the men content to dance and play, now they itched for something to sate their bloodlust.

Calls for the bedding began to ring out from around the garden, and Margaery was suddenly very conscious of the eyes on her. _But she was to be a queen, and a queen served her people._ So she stood up, and clapped her hands together merrily.

“My good lords do be gentle with your poor Queen,” she called out. “For I am just a gentle maid.”

Her words prompted laughter and cheers as her guests struggled drunkenly to their feet.

Margaery shouted in feigned surprise as Loras and Garlan hoisted her between them, carrying her high above the reaching hands of the lords. To placate them, she plucked ribbons and flowers from her dress to throw to the crowd.

She turned to see her husband, accosted by dozens of ladies reaching to tear at his lovely velvet doublet. He was flushed, though from embarrassment or wine she could not tell. All of her giggling cousins were pressed up against him, tugging madly at his yellow silks.

One man caught hold of her shimmering cape, and she pinched the clasp to let it fall into his arms, lest he pull her backwards into the dirt. He threw it to the ground, reaching again for her skirts, surely hoping to see more than her bare shoulders. She twisted in annoyance to see the silks in the dirt, but before she could protest, Helena appeared and gathered it into her arms.

_“My father had it brought from Pentos,” said Margaery, holding the pearly silk up so Helena could see. “It’s the finest in the world.”_

_“It’s beautiful,” gasped Helena. “I can see straight through it!”_

_Margaery tossed the silk up so it filled with air like a tent. It drifted down, swathing Helena in pearly iridescence._

_Helena smiled at her coyly, batting her eyelashes. “Should you not like to kiss your bride, my lady?”_

_Margaery kissed Helena many times through the slippery silk._

_When her mother had asked where the silk for her new dress had gone, Margaery had lied rather then tell her it was wrinkled beyond use._

Margaery tried to see where Helena went, but she was being bore away to her marriage bed. By the time they reached her chambers, Garlan had drawn his sword and had begun cursing at the men trying to pry their way into the room.

“Help me out of this,” Margaery demanded of her brother. Her lovely gown had been shredded and dirtied in the bedding process, and she knew the lords would not leave without it. Ripping and tearing, Loras managed to free her from the dress, and Margaery wrapped the bed sheet around her.

“Now throw that to the wolves howling outside my door,” Margaery ordered. “And tell them their duty has been done.”

Loras carried the dress to the chamber door and threw it out, just as Renly came sprinting up the hall dressed only in his smallclothes.

“Your cousins are vicious little things,” said Renly, leaning close to her brother. He seemed to sway where he stood.

“They’ve done a fair job,” said Loras, appraising Renly’s state of undress. “Should I have guarded you with my sword?”

A lazy smile stole across Renly’s face, and he opened his mouth to respond, before spotting Margaery in the bed. Suddenly, it seemed he was too drunk to stand, and he made as if he would topple to the floor.

Loras hefted him beneath his arms, and dragged him over to the bed. Renly collapsed face first onto the mattress.

“Get out the lot of you!” shouted Loras at the giggling girls who were peering around the door. He took Megga’s arm, and pushed her back through the door as she protested. And then he cast a final glance at them, and was gone.

Margaery listened as the footsteps and giggles receded. She listened until it was entirely quiet, but for Renly’s ragged breathing. She looked at her husband. He did not look as if he intended to move from his collapsed state on the bed until morning.

She dropped the sheets so that her nakedness was displayed, and crawled over to shake his shoulder.

“My King,” she called, soft and cooing. “My King, it is our wedding night. I mustn't be a maid by the time the sun greets us.”

Renly slid off the bed, and stood unsteadily. “I fear the wine has made me muddled, sweet lady,” he rasped. “I do not think I… I do not think I could.” He stared at the bed linens resolutely, not meeting her eyes.

Margaery thought for the space of a breath, letting her fingertips graze her bare belly. _A king must have heirs._ An heir or two would be the final bolt in their security.

But perhaps it did not need to be tonight.

“As you wish, my King,” murmured Margaery. Renly said nothing, but climbed back into the bed and buried his face in the pillow. Carefully, Margaery slipped from the bed. She took the pins from her hair, and combed out her curls. She took the earrings from her ears, and the rings from her fingers. She found a night rail in the drawers, and dressed herself for bed. Before climbing into the bed, she bolted the chamber door. Surely Loras was out there in the darkness, wondering if they had done their duty.

_Not yet._

Margaery crawled into the bed, lying so she could study the back of her husband’s head. _Our children will have fine hair_ , she mused drowsily. _And blue eyes._

“What of the blood?”

Margaery raised her head, sleepy and perplexed. “The blood?”

Renly still did not look at her. “There will be no blood on the sheets come morning. Will they check?”

For a moment, Margaery imagined taking a knife to her thigh and letting the blood drip onto the bed sheet to appease her husband while Rely doggedly faced the wall. It was not an especially appealing thought.

“No, my lord,” she assured him, finally. “Many highborn girls do not bleed on their wedding night, especially those who are avid horseback riders. It is said that the horse does the job of a husband.”

_Would Helena bleed on her wedding night? She wondered if Lord Owen Shermer had ever thought to lift Helena’s skirts and kiss her thighs and lick the honey from between her legs. She wondered what Lord Owen Shermer would think if he knew Margaery had done so first. How Helena had shouted and wound her fingers through Margaery’s curls when Margaery had kissed her maidenhair._

“Good,” grunted Renly. And he said no more. After several minutes, his breathing evened as he fell asleep.

And Margaery laid there in the darkness, listening to her husband’s soft snores.

_I want to be the Queen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, my Margaery is extra af and gay as hell. I know D&D were just trying to be edgy when they gave Margaery that “pretty girls” line, but I’m going to take it and run with it. 
> 
> I literally spent hours reviewing the politics of the Reach, designing Margaery’s dress, googling medieval/got esque wedding dishes. Btw, the idea for the Rosehip Soup and Grape Pie are from this website http://www.innatthecrossroads.com which is pretty cool. Also roasting a boar and painting it green and gold is a REAL medieval recipe from a book published in 1420 called Du Fait de Cuisine http://www.daviddfriedman.com/Medieval/Cookbooks/Du_Fait_de_Cuisine/Du_fait_de_Cuisine.html 
> 
> And while House Ashford and House Shermer are both current houses in the got timeline, there is no information on current members so Owen and Helena are creations. 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3
> 
> CalistaBista


	2. The Lion Gate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognizable dialogue from "A Game of Thrones" and "The Dragon and the Wolf." Enjoy!

“Mother, has Sansa gone to bed?”

Cersei lifted her head to see Myrcella, breathless and pink-cheeked from dancing. Cersei only half-heard her daughter, warm as she was from the wine, warm from the sight of Joffrey with a crown on his brow. She smiled at Myrcella, and reached out to wrap one of her daughter’s golden curls around her finger. “Did you enjoy the feast, sweet girl?”

Myrcella tilted her head so it rested in Cersei’s palm for a moment. “Yes, Mother.” Her emerald eyes darted to where Joffrey sat, and Cersei followed her gaze. Her son was flush with his kingship, laughing at the Moonboy as he turned somersaults in front of the High Table.

“But where is Sansa?” Myrcella asked again. “She’s not with Joff, and she’s not dancing.”  Myrcella was frowning, and Cersei reached up to smooth the offending wrinkle with her thumb.

Cersei glanced around the hall, and with a twinge of irritability, realized that Sansa Stark was nowhere to be found. She had been spinning around with some lordling or other just a moment ago, she was sure of that. Cersei had not dressed that girl in fine silks and a golden crown for her to hide her face.

But Sansa was well versed in ladies’ courtesies, and it was not like her to wander off without a word.

She called for Septa Eglantine, who appeared with a sleeping Tommen draped over her shoulder, his plump arms curled around her neck.  

“I was just taking the little prince to bed, Your Grace,” said the Septa. “Shall I take the Princess as well?”

Cersei hesitated, her fingers curling around Myrcella’s wrist.  

“Take the children to the Holdfast, and put them in their chambers,” Cersei ordered. “Ser Balon and Ser Boros will escort you. And while you are there, you will send the maids to check for Lady Stark in her rooms.”

“But, Mother - ” Myrcella began to protest. 

Cersei ignored her, and crossed to where Jaime sat with Tyrion.

“Sister - ” Tyrion raised a glass as she approached, surely about to soil her ears with some dreadful jape.

“Where is Sansa Stark?” Cersei interrupted him before he could speak.

Tyrion’s wretched smile froze, and slipped from his face. For a moment, she thought she read fear on his features, and it stoked her unease.

“I believe she was dancing with Hobber and Slobber,” said Jaime, craning his head towards the Redwyne twins. But neither of their partners had red hair.

“Have you send someone to check her rooms?” asked Tyrion, getting to his feet far too easily.

Cersei narrowed her eyes at him. It was not like him to be sober at feast.

“Stay close to Joff,” She murmured to Jaime. “And ask him if he has seen the girl.”

“Our King seems more preoccupied with the bottom of his cup.” Tyrion said, in that sneering tone of his.

Cersei bristled. “It is his right as king to enjoy his own betrothal feast,” she spit back.

“The feast I see in front of me,” said Tyrion, “but his betrothed?”

Though her cheeks darkened with anger, she had no response.

Joffrey had no answer either when she climbed the dais to where he sat. It was evident that he had not even noticed the girl’s absence.

“Where is she?” demanded Joffrey. “She should have not taken leave without my permission.”

“Hush, my love,” Cersei soothed him, stroking his golden head.

He slapped her hand away, harshly. He glared up at her, his face puffy and red. For an instant, she thought she saw Robert peering up at her through Joffrey’s eyes. _But that was impossible. Impossible._

And then it passed, and it was just her own dear babe looking up at her. Perhaps he had had too much to drink, but a king had every right to indulge as he saw fit.

“Dog,” Joffrey yelled, stumbling from the table. “Find my bride!”

The Hound rose with some reluctance, but just then one of Cersei’s maids came scurrying towards them. Cersei took in her apprehensive features with a growing dread.

“Your Grace,” said Della, dipping her head to Joffrey, and then Cersei. “Lady Sansa is not in her chambers, nor anywhere in the Holdfast.”

Joffrey looked increasingly distressed. _“Then where is she?”_ he snarled at the girl.

The maid twisted her fingers in her dress, and looked to Cersei. Cersei ignored her. She could sense the lords and ladies beginning to notice Joff’s agitation. The dancing had slowed, and they were looking towards the High Table and whispering.

Jaime appeared at her side, his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. She felt a spike of irritation. _What good would a sword do for a missing girl?_

“Check again,” Cersei commanded. “Do not presume to return until you have found her.” Della ran off.

Cersei reached for Joffrey’s hand. “Come, my love,” she urged him. “We will set the guards to comb every inch of the castle for Lady Sansa. But for now, we must ensure your safety.”

Joffrey wrenched his hand from hers. “I am the King,” he declared, his words slurred. “ _I_ will command the guards. GUARDS!”

“Hush,” snarled Tyrion, appearing suddenly. “Foolish boy! The court musn’t hear of this!”

Joff’s mouth dropped in outrage, and he sputtered.

Cersei’s lips came together in a thin, white line. It was true, that it would not do to have whisperings of this, but her imp of a brother could not be allowed to undermine her son.

“You will address your sovereign in a manner befitting a King,” said Cersei tightly.

Tyrion turned to her, his twisted countenance made uglier by anger. “If you have lost her...” he warned.

“You have the audacity to threaten me?” Cersei seethed. She ground her teeth so hard she thought they might crack.

“Your Grace…”

Cersei whipped around to see Jano Slynt’s simpering frog-face arranged in an expression of concern.

“It seems that there has been some distress,” the man continued, with a lecherous smile. “If I can be of any help, I am indubitably at the service of the Crown.”

Cersei hesitated. Speaking the words aloud seemed to make the situation more dangerous, more real. But Joffrey responded at once.

“Lock the gates to the castle,” Joffrey commanded. “Find my bride, and return her to me at once! _She is mine!_ ”

Janos Slynt scuttled away with a bow. Cersei bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, and scanned the hall once more. Sansa Stark still did not appear despite the vehemence with which Cersei tried to conjure her.

“Lock the doors to the hall,” she instructed Joffrey’s captain of the guard. “Fetch Ser Ilyn Payne. The guests will need to be interrogated.”

Ser Vylarr hurried to follow her instructions. The crowd parted as he swept through them, and locked the doors with a finality. One of Lord Rykker's daughters burst into tears at the noise, and her elder sisters huddled around trying to quiet her.

The Moonboy exploded into song, turning cartwheels before the startled crowd.  

 _“There was a sweet maid to be wed,_ ” he sang, _“who left not a trace when she fled. She wound up at sea, the wife of a flea, and cried when their boat sank like lead!”_

Joffrey stood, almost calmly, and hurled his half-empty tankard at the fool, striking him so the man went sprawling to the floor. The crowd tittered with unease.

“If he speaks again, kill him,” said Joffrey to the Hound, his lips curling back over his teeth.

The wine-soaked fool crawled away on his belly. The hall watched him without a word.

Cersei examined their faces, looking for the one that might be flushed or dotted with perspiration. Jaime prowled the perimeter like a caged lion, yet not one face seemed to betray guilt. They waited there in tense silence, until Ser Vylarr reappeared, a wariness in his normally placid expression.

Joffrey exploded when he saw him. “My mother commanded you to bring the King’s Justice,” he raged. “Are you too stupid to follow orders?”

Ser Vylarr shook his head. Cersei’s nails bit into her palms. Rashly, she thought that the man was about to tell them that they have discovered Sansa Stark’s body, so grim was the expression on the captain’s face.

“Ser Ilyn is dead,” Vylarr said. “He’s been murdered. Your Grace… I...  ”

A strange buzzing filled Cersei’s ears, and she took a step back. White, hot panic was searing through her head. Dimily beside her, she could hear Joffrey’s screeched response. And Vylarr’s mouth was still moving, though his words broke through her senses with irregularity.  

“... no trace of the head…”

\-------

Tyrion watched as his father picked up the delicate tiara that had rested so fleetingly on Sansa Stark’s graceful head. Tywin Lannister’s sharp eyes examined the gold lion’s head, and the glinting rubies of the eyes.

Tyrion had thought that his rage would drown him once he set eyes on his father once more, that he would choke on his hatred. He remembered all too well the heavy satisfaction that had settled in his belly when the bolt from his crossbow had hit his father’s flesh with a sickening  _thud._

_“You shot me.” Tywin’s hand had gone to his stomach, hovering above the wound. He had sounded… disappointed._

_But then again, Tyrion had always been a disappointment._

Instead he had felt a strange nothingness when Tywin rode through the Lion Gate. No pain, no anger, just a cold sort of emptiness. Tyrion almost grieved his fury, so unnerving was the hollow in his chest where it ought to have lived.

“Where was it found?”

“In the woods off the Gold Road,” Jaime responded. “Along with a pendant Joffrey had given her, and Ilyn Payne’s greatsword.”

Tywin sat back, studying the three of them. “And Payne?”

“Dead,” Cersei said. Her fearsome rage had slunk down to a poisonous simmer in the recent days. “His body was found in his chambers. His head has not been recovered.”

Cersei looked dull and weary. Tyrion knew she had hardly been sleeping, keeping one eye open until their father rode through the gates, a garrison at his back.  

His sister had taken Ilyn Payne’s death like a physical blow, staggering back under the unthinkable weight of it. Tyrion would have laughed madly if not for the absurd horror of it all.

_“What of Ilyn Payne?”_

_“The body was recovered from his chambers,” said Varys delicately. “The smell of the dungeons can make it difficult to discern when men have died.”_

_Pycelle cleared his throat. “I’ve examined the body thoroughly. It seems the head was removed post-mortem… thought to what end I cannot say.”_

_“And yet,” said Varys, a strange look in his pale eyes. “I have no less than a dozen whispers telling me that Ilyn Payne left the Keep on the night of the betrothal. With a sack thrown over his shoulder. Such a… compelling turn of events.”_

Tyrion could not be sure that he had maintained an appropriate expression when Varys informed him of the last. The pieces of the puzzle had slid together to create a scene of such an exquisite monstrosity. He remembered the barely restrained fury in the little she-wolf’s dark eyes when Sansa begged that she might stay to be Joffrey’s queen.

_Such great and terrible things done in the name of love._

Had the girl known that this was the night of her sister’s betrothal announcement? Had she chosen to whisk Sansa from under their noses this night, of all nights, knowing how shamefully Joffrey would be mocked for misplacing his bride not an hour after he had placed a crown on her head.

 _How they will write songs about this,_ Tyrion mused. _The wolf slipping the lion’s paws with his gold._

Tyrion imagined the girl creeping on Ilyn Payne in the dead of night, bending over his corpse dagger in hand. But then his thoughts seemed to run up against an impassable wall. He could not say what came next, could not even imagine it. He had never considered himself a small-minded man, indeed, he had ridden dragons, seen dead man walking, watched water burst into flame. But to take another’s face, to wear their skin… it seemed a thing the gods themselves would not touch.

He would have giggled madly at the looks of consternation on his family’s faces had the situation not been so dire. Now the true games would begin. Tyrion pictured the great stone table at Dragonstone, imagined a thousand shudders rippling through the obsidian as King after King called their banners.

“I suppose the girl grew wings and flew from under the guards’ noses,” said Tywin, his mouth as grim as stone.

 _The guards._ Tyrion felt queasy remembering the Joffrey’s rage when they had discovered who it was that let Sansa pass unencumbered from the feast.

_“Kill them!” Joffrey had shrieked to the shock of the court._

_“Forgive us, Your Grace,” begged one of the men. “We thought Lady Stark had only left to retire early from the feast. Forgive us....”_

_He was the braver. The other guard had wet himself in fear._

_Tyrion grimaced. It was unlikely that either of them had seen their twentieth name day._

_Joffrey had grown steadily drunker and drunker while they searched, and his eyes were bloodshot and furious. But even as the light of dawn crept over the windowsill, Sansa Stark did not appear. “Kill them,” he yelled to his kingsguard. “Kill them!”_

_The Hound and Mandon Moore hesitated only an instant before the choked noises of death echoed through the hall. Joffrey watched them, his chest heaving, his eyes half-mad with anger and pleasure._

_Tyrion heard a woman scream, but his eyes were fixed on the pool of blood spreading across the stones._

_Joffrey drew his sword then, pointing it at the gold cloaks standing behind Janos Slynt._

_“Find my bride,” snarled Joffrey. “Or I swear, I shall cut down a man from your ranks every day that you fail.”_

_Great, fat drops of sweat rolled down Janos Slynt’s face. “My men will not fail, My King,” wheezed Slynt._

_But they had failed. It seemed Sansa Stark appeared to have vanished into thin air. On the third day, his sister managed with much difficulty to stay Joffrey’s bloody vengeance. Jaime had pointed out that if they continued in this fashion that they’d have to recruit more silent sisters to keep up with the demand._

“I never knew a wolf nor a child to sprout wings,” mused Tyrion. His words roused Cersei, as surely as if he had flicked the nose of a sleeping dragon.

“You dare jest,” hissed Cersei turning her fury on him. “Without that _child_ we have no hold on the North. That fool boy that holds Eddard Stark’s mantle and his honor may lend his banners to Stannis, or worse.”

“Then perhaps _your_ son should not have announced to the entire Capitol that we had lost her,” Tyrion bit back.  

Every man, woman, and child in King’s Landing had been combing the streets on the Joffrey’s orders for a trace of Sansa Stark. If they had been able to keep it within the walls of the Red Keep perhaps they might have been able to contain it. But there was no hope of that now. _Whispers spread faster than wildfyre._

And that had been before they received a raven from the retinue that had been sent to escort the Starks to Winterfell. And that had been before the maids had discovered Sansa’s slippers hidden in her room, and all of her jewels missing. And now they had found more than traces lying along the Gold Road.   

“It was senseless of the boy to play our hand so plainly,” said their father, though he did not acknowledge Tyrion when he spoke. Cersei flinched at the perceived slight. “Had we kept the loss under wraps, we might have had some leverage over the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale. Now we have nothing but fear with which to command fealty.” He looked at Cersei. “The Targaryens ruled by fear alone, and your son would do well to review how that history unfolded.”

“Joff is just a boy - ” Cersei began, her color heightened.

“Your son is no longer a boy,” their father snapped. “He is a king. A king that I plan on fighting a war for. And where might that king be? Off ordering the Hound to slaughter more of those loyal to us? Gods only know what put that thought into his head, you feed your dogs bones under the table, you do not seat him beside you on the high bench.”

“Joffrey punished those who betray us,” said Cersei coldly. “Had they done their duty, we would not find ourselves short a Stark.”

Tywin leaned forward, setting Sansa’s tiara down on the Hand’s desk. “Strange how you had three Starks in hand, and they’ve all seemed to... slip past the guards,” mulled their father. “And I wonder exactly what prompted Eddard Stark to drug a retinue of the Crown, bound to take him home. To turn back South on a broken leg with naught but a woman and a child by his side. I wonder what exactly prompted a girl promised to be queen to flee her own betrothal. Perhaps your son has some idea.”

Cersei was trembling now, her eyes hard as flint. “I treated that girl as if she was my own, she slept beside my own daughter. Joffrey showered her in affection, she had anything she wished at hand. I would have made her a princess in time, and more. No girl in the Seven Kingdoms had a brighter future than she.”

“It is not _her_ future I am concerned with,” replied Tywin. “Nevertheless, she is a valuable piece, and I would rather her in our hand.” He turned his eyes on Tyrion. “Her baubles were found on the Gold Road. Where might she be headed?”

Tyrion was taken aback by the question, torn between truth and lies. His father had an uncanny ability to differentiate, and would undoubtedly find out eventually. He chose the truth.

“While she certainly intends to go North, I do not think she will take the Kingsroad,” Tyrion replied carefully. “Indeed if she is with her father, then he will not take chances on their safety. They will head to Riverrun, I am sure of it.”

“Not to the Vale?” asked his father.

“No,” said Tyrion, thinking of the madness in Lysa Arryn’s eyes. “Not the Vale.” He paused. “The mountain clans would pose too much of a danger.”

“We could cut them off before Riverrun,” said Jaime.

“You _will_ cut them off before Riverrun,” corrected their father. “Take a garrison and find them before they reach Hoster Tully. Capture them swiftly and quietly. It should not pose a problem for you to apprehend an injured man and three women. They will be moving slowly.”

Tyrion inhaled sharply. 

“Jaime belongs at the King’s side,” objected Cersei. “Surely we can send other men. The Mountain perhaps...”  

“I will not use a sledgehammer when knifeblade would serve us just as well,” said Tywin coolly. “And Ser Gregor is a poor choice if there are to be children involved. I’d rather have the Stark girl in once piece than three. There will be no more mistakes made.” He turned to Jaime. “You will not touch the Riverlands, but your presence will _remind_ them who their king is. And that we are watching.”

“They have two wolves dogging their steps,” Tyrion reminded his father.

“And I will fear wolves the day they carry steel.” Tywin was unrepentant. Their father turned his attention to the scrolls on his desk, a clear dismissal.

Cersei left without another word, Jaime trailing her heels.

“You will stay.”

Tyrion turned at his father’s curt command. His father did not look at him as he retook his seat before the desk. _My desk once,_ thought Tyrion, eyeing the silver hand on Tywin’s breast.

Tywin finished what he was writing, and Tyrion watched as he heated a spoonful of golden wax until it bubbled. His father poured it over the letter, and stamped it with the lion-headed signet ring that adorned his left hand.

A thousand japes spun through his head, each one threatening a fraction more, to slip from between his lips.

“It’s not like you to sit there silent,” his father noted.

A whisper of satisfaction danced before Tyrion, almost a memory of a feeling.

“Your brother says you abstain from drink, abstain from whores, abstain from folly.” Finally, Tywin looked up to meet Tyrion’s eyes. “He also seems to believe you have done nothing since your arrival in capital, but try to temper the rulings of kings.”

“Someone must,” said Tyrion with a touch of grandeur that he knew would rankle his father. He was rewarded with the slightest tightening of Tywin’s mouth. But the vindication that might have roared so gleefully in his chest once upon a time, was noticeably absent.

Once he had thought his father as impenetrable as a god, but Tyrion knew better now. Tywin Lannister was just a man. A impossibly clever and cruel man, but a man nonetheless. One that could be quite useful to Tyrion’s intentions if he held his cards close to his chest.   

He realized Tywin was appraising him still, as if waiting for him to turn a trick. Tyrion folded his hands over his stomach, and stared back.

“What is it you want?”

Tyrion laughed at that, the sharp, hollow sound exploding out of his throat.

His father looked displeased.

“What would you like to hear?” asked Tyrion. “That I come to court to revel in luxuries that I do not deserve, to brandish the colors of a house that were never meant to be mine for petty reasons? Lies, all of it. I told Cersei what I will tell you. I am a Lannister. I have come to aid the family.”

“The family,” repeated Tywin, as if Tyrion had pronounced the word incorrectly.

Tyrion leaned back in his seat. “Does that surprise you so? All I am I owe to my blood.” He bit his tongue before he said the last. _It’s why you neglected to have me thrown into the Sunset bay after my birth._

Tywin assessed him a moment longer, before speaking abruptly. “The eunuch has heard whispers from the South. Renly Baratheon wed Margaery Tyrell at Highgarden this fortnight past, and now he has claimed the crown. The bride’s father and brothers have bent the knee and sworn him their swords.”

“Ah.”

“Your brother suggested you knew as much before the fact,” said Tywin.

“It was not a great leap to see that Renly would lay claim,” said Tyrion. “He was restless after Stannis abandoned court, and Robert did none of us favor making Renly lord of Storm’s End. And the Tyrells have everything to gain from Renly, and everything to lose from Stannis.” He paused. “Joffrey’s not been told.” He did not ask it as a question.

“Cersei has not seen fit to tell him, yet” said Tywin. “She fears he might insist on marching against Renly himself.”

“Does she think so?” chortled Tyrion. “Joffrey’s as craven as a hare. A hare with snarling dogs at his command and a taste for blood, mind you.”

“The boy needs to be taken in hand before he ruins us all,” said Tywin, anger flickering in the gold of his eyes. “What did he do to make the honorable Ned Stark court treason after he had sworn fealty to the Crown?”   

Tyrion hesitated. “He was not pleased to leave his daughter behind,” he said carefully. “It was his feeling that she was too young.”

Tywin’s eyes bored into his. “And you believe that?”

His father was _testing_ him, Tyrion could see quite plainly.

_“Yes.” Tywin looked down at him. “I had thought you were the one made for motley, Tyrion, but it would appear that I was wrong.” “_

_Why, Father,” Tyrion had said, “that almost sounds like praise.”_  

“Lord Stark would sooner leave his precious daughter in a nest of vipers than entrust her to Joffrey….”

_“King’s Landing. I am sending you to court.”_

_It was the last thing Tyrion Lannister would ever have anticipated. He reached for his wine, and considered for a moment as he sipped. “And what am I to do there?”_

_“Rule,” his father said curtly_

“... I did not anticipate, of course, that he would do more than stew on the long road back to Winterfell,” continued Tyrion. “And I certainly never would have guessed the girl to be capable of slipping through Cersei’s fingers.” 

“Your sister labors under the misapprehension that the gods have bestowed her with cleverness,” said Tywin bluntly. He took the sealed letter on his desk, and handed it to Tyrion. “You will ensure that this reaches House Hayford.”

Tyrion took it, combing the banks of his memory. The lady of Hayford was a babe at her wet nurse’s breast. “You intend to wed one of our own to Lady Hayford.”

“Tyrek will wed the Lady Ermesande,” said Tywin with an almost approving glance at Tyrion. “A large castle, near empty with fertile lands is invaluable in wartime. As we speak, my brother is organizing our banners. I must return and attend to our armies. The Baratheon brothers will be slow to rise, but we will meet them when they do.”

“They will try to starve us out,” said Tyrion.

“Indeed,” said Tywin. “It will be your duty to keep the King in hand while you prepare the city for wartime.”

Tyrion parted his lips, and chuckled lowly. “My duty?” He eyed the shining hand pinned to his father’s breast.

“Yes,” his father said. He pointed a finger in Tyrion’s face. “If Cersei cannot curb the boy, you must. And if his councillors play him false…”    

Tyrion recited the words back to his father as if they were only the memories from a long ago dream. “Spikes. Heads. Walls.”

“I see you have taken a few lessons from me.”

“More than a few, Father” said Tyrion, cocking his head.

_“Oh poor little man,” Cersei’s voice whispered in his ear. “Your papa was mean to you. Do you have any idea what you did when you fired that crossbow? You left us open. You laid us bare for the vultures, and the vultures came and tore us apart. You may not have killed Joffrey, but you killed Myrcella, you killed Tommen. No one would've touched them if Father was here…”_

Tyrion looked up at his father. He thought of how his father could calm a storm with a glance, crush the future of a house as easily as one might a distasteful bug.

 _Oh yes, this could be useful._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify - Margaery and Renly got married during the period in which Sansa was alone in KL. So this chapter is backtracking very slightly. As there is currenty no active battleground, and Tywin has been named Hand, I figured he would think it worthy to pop over to KL and check on the mess that is Joffrey


	3. Beth and Jeyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognizable dialogue from a "Storm of Swords." Enjoy!

Arya squatted in the trickling stream. The stones were sun-warmed under her bare feet, the water cool and crisp against her ankles. She scrubbed the dirt away from a fistful of wild radishes, shaking them in the clear water. When she was done, she filled the waterskin at her hip, and stepped onto the bank, the soft mud squelching between her toes.

There were blooming forget-me-nots growing thick in the moist dirt along the stream, their petals waving lazily in the breeze. _Tully blue,_ thought Arya, admiring them against the green reeds.

_This is how it’s supposed to look._

The Riverlands of her memories were orange and black - scorched earth and burnt homes. The reds and browns of freshly turned graves and spilled blood. They stunk of death.

This place smelled like living things, green and damp.

Arya stepped back into the clearing where she had left her sister sleeping. Sansa’s mouth was half-open as she slept, one hand curled in Nymeria’s fur. Arya crept over to them, and crouched over her sister. She dangled a forget-me-not so its petals tickled the end of Sansa’s nose.

In her sleep, Sansa wrinkled her nose. Arya snickered, and did it again.

Suddenly, Sansa’s eyes flew open, and she grabbed Arya’s wrist in a hard grip. Arya dropped the flower in surprise.

“Oh,” Sansa gasped, letting go apologetically.

“It’s me,” Arya assured her. “We’re in the Riverlands, not far from the God’s Eye river. I thought you might like flowers.” She offered her sister the slightly squashed bouquet she had picked.

Sansa smiled, and took the flowers. She pushed back her dirty hair, full of stick and twigs from sleeping on the ground. “They’re so blue,” she marvelled. “They remind me of mother’s dress, the blue one with all the little flowers on the bodice.”

Arya thought back. “The one she likes to wear on her nameday,” she recalled. She remembered being very small, and watching as her mother fixed a pearl that had come loose from the middle of one of the flowers.

_“Forget-me-nots like the water,” Catelyn had told her.  “They grow thick as weeds around Riverrun.”_

Sansa hummed in agreement. Arya watched as she combed her hair out, and replaced it in a high knot atop her head. Then she wrapped a linen scarf tightly around it, and secured it with pins. Arya thought she looked very strange every time she saw her with her red hair hidden away, but of course it couldn’t be helped.

“You look like a milkmaid,” Arya offered.

“Better a milkmaid than a princess,” said Sansa, tucking the bouquet into the waist of her dress. “And if I’m to be a milkmaid, you must herd the cows.”

Arya feigned looking for cows. “I’ve done a terrible job of it them.” She looked down at her wolf. “Nymeria! Did you eat the cows?”

Nymeria perked up at the suggestion.

“We haven’t brought the cows with us,” said Sansa in exasperation. “We’re… Jeyne and Beth… on our way to visit our sick grandfather. We’ve left our father and brothers to oversee the farm.”

Arya considered this. “I want to be Beth.”

“Then I will be Jeyne,” Sansa agreed.

Though an hour later, Arya was sure her sister deeply regretted informing her of their aliases.

“Your skirt’s got a spot of mud on it, Jeyne.”

“Are you hungry, Jeyne?”

“Fine day, isn’t it, Jeyne?”

“You’ve dropped your handkerchief, Jeyne.”

“If my name’s not Beth… but it is, isn’t it, Jeyne?”

Sansa sighed, rolling her eyes back heavily. But she was not really annoyed, not truly. There was too much humor and softness in the set of her mouth. It was a bit of playacting, playing sisters who had never been parted, who didn’t know better than to squabble because they had never missed each other, never lain awake at night hoping the other was safe. It was nice.

“Need help getting up, Jeyne?”

“Really, Beth,” said Sansa, dryly, stepping into her own saddle. “I don’t know _what’s_ gotten into you.”

They rode west, the sun and wind at their backs. Nymeria ran ahead to scout, ears pricked and nose to the ground. Sometimes she disappeared into the trees, but would always appear again to nudge them in the right direction.

Arya imagined a thousand golden lines crisscrossed across the world, and buried deep in the earth, vibrating with the energy of the people that walked over them. Perhaps Nymeria could tell which vibrations came from Brienne and Father’s horse, or the pad of Lady’s paws.

“Were you here, before?” asked Sansa as they rode past a tiny village.

Arya craned her neck to see the name of the town. She shook her head. “We’re too south, yet. Yoren took us as north as the God’s Eye and the Lannister men took us further to Harrenhal.” _Harrenhal. The word still tasted like despair._ “I’ve no intention of bringing us that way, we’ll cross the river when we find Father and Brienne, and make for Acorn Hall. Lady Smallwood will be kind to us.”

Lady Smallwood’s hands had been so gentle as she dressed Arya in her daughter’s dress, green and covered in acorns. Arya squirmed, remembering how ornery she had been, such an ill-tempered child.

_“My great-aunt is a septa at a motherhouse in Oldtown,” Lady Smallwood had said. “I sent my daughter there when the war began. She’ll have outgrown these things by the time she returns, no doubt. Are you fond of dancing, child? My Carellen’s a lovely dancer. She sings beautifully as well. What do you like to do?”_

Arya had been far too preoccupied with the thought of what Gendry and the brothers would say when they saw her dressed as a girl to pay attention to the sorrow in her words.

_And indeed, Gendry had laughed so hard at the sight of her in a dress that wine spurted out his nose._

_“You even smell nice for a change,” he had teased her, leaning over to sniff at her hair._

_That had brought her to blows, though Gendry only laughed when she punched him. He had pinned and tickled her until she slammed her knee between his legs and wrenched free. Both of them had ended up covered in dirt, the sleeve of the acorn dress torn._

_“I bet I don’t look so nice now!” she had shouted into his laughing face._

“What are you thinking?” asked Sansa.

Arya paused. “I’m wondering if Gendry and the boys made it to Winterfell.”

“Gendry’s as stubborn as a bull,” noted Sansa. “He’ll have gotten them there, I’m sure of it.”

Aye, Gendry was stubborn. Stubborn and hardheaded and bullish. He had told her once that Master Mott said a blacksmith must be as sturdy as the steel he forged. Shaky hands made weak blades.

“What will you say when you see him?”

Arya fidgeted in her saddle. As terrible as things had been in the Riverlands, there had been spots of brightness as well. Memories that she wouldn’t want to forget. Of course,this Gendry would be just as brave, just as kind, but he would have none of those memories. He would know her only as a highborn lady, and never as his equal as she had been when she was Arry.

“I do not know,” she said truthfully. “I don’t even know what it is I want from him, if anything. He doesn’t _owe_ me anything.” She stopped, unsure and frustrated.

“You want him to be safe,” said Sansa.

Arya huffed. “Well, _yes.”_ And from the tangled mess of feeling in her chest, that rang true. “He’s important.”

It was not quite the right word, not _really,_ but she could not come up with another that fit better. And Sansa’s face was beginning to look like Father’s when Arya had lied to him about hiding a nest of baby squirrels in the bell tower.

Arya urged her horse into a trot, sending up a puff of dust behind her.

“Arya!” Sansa squawked.

“No Arya here,” Arya called back over her shoulder. “Just call me Beth the cow herder!” She grinned at her sister’s sputtering. “And your name was? Jeyne, did you say?”  

\-------

“This is the Blackwater?” Lord Stark looked out over the rushing waters.

“A part of it,” responded Brienne, tying off the horses. “This river flows upwards to feed the God’s Eye. And Harrenhal sits on its edge.”

“House Whent holds that castle,” said Ned. “It was the house of my wife’s mother.”

“Lady Whent had long surrendered the castle when I was there,” said Brienne. “Tywin Lannister took it as his seat during the War of the Five Kings, and Roose Bolton held it soon after that. I do not know what became of it after. It is a cruel place, and a cursed one as well.”

“Catelyn’s mother seemed to think so,” said Ned, stretching his leg. “Lord Tully told Catelyn that Minisa wpt when she saw the gardens at Riverrun for the first time. It must of been a far cry from the blackened towers of Harrenhal.”

Brienne turned away so Lord Stark would not see the fall of her face. The gardens at Riverrun had been dry and dead when she and Pod had gone to request aid from the Blackfish on behalf of Sansa. The Freys had let them go to ruin.

“How is your leg, Lord Stark?”

The man grimaced, and allowed Brienne to unwind the bandages, dusty from travel. Using a sopping rag, Brienne wet the last layer of bandages so they pulled easily away from the skin. Even so, Ned’s hands dug into the dirt when the air hit his leg.

“There is no sign of infection,” Brienne noted.

Ned sighed in relief. He didn’t make a sound as she cleaned the wound with fresh water from the river. While his leg dried, Brienne filled a pot with water, and set it to boiling over a fire. She washed the dirty bandages, and then dipped them in the hot water before laying them to dry in the sun. When they had, she rewrapped his leg, and sealed it with tallow wax. Finally, Ned held the splint as Brienne bound it tightly. When she had finished, Sansa’s wolf sniffed Lord Stark’s leg, and when she settled beside him, Brienne supposed that she must have approved.

“Thank you, Brienne,” said Ned, leaning his head back against a tree. “I don’t know how I shall ever repay you.”

Brienne smiled. “There is no need,” she said gently. “It is my honor to assist you. I will be rewarded knowing that I have brought you and your children home safely to Lady Catelyn.”

Ned smiled wistfully. “I dream of Winterfell every night. Of Catelyn and the children. My wife whispering in my ear, telling me to hurry.” Grief flashed across his face. “Telling me to protect our daughters.”  

“You have not lost them,” Brienne insisted. “Arya will take no chances on Sansa’s safety, she will snatch her away as quickly as possible. Even now they may be riding towards us.” She glanced down at Lady. “And we would surely be warned if something had gone amiss.”

“I still feel as if I have failed them,” confessed Ned. “Now and before. What kind of man leaves his daughter in danger to save his own skin? My daughters should have no need to slit men’s throats or raise armies. Even my sister, as wild as she was, never rode into battle as my daughters have done. As they seek to now.”

Brienne was quiet for a moment, considering his words. “My father is a good man, as you are a good man, Lord Stark. Three children he lose during the course of my childhood, leaving me his sole heir. He might have hidden me away, kept me in skirts and tangled in embroidery thread, but instead he saw a different potential. Ser Goodwin put a sword in my hand and trained me well. And so I learned my own strength as your daughters have. They through less pleasant means, but they have found it and it is theirs.” She looked at Lord Stark who was listening patiently to her. “And there is another sort of strength in trusting those you love to protect themselves rather than expending effort to hide them away. Not that you should ever stop wanting to protect your children, but rather you trust them sometimes to know their strength.”

Ned rubbed at his leg thoughtfully. “Have you never wished that your father kept you in skirts and wed you to a kind lord? It is a safe life, a good life. The kind I wished for my daughters once upon a time.”

“He tried,” said Brienne. “Three times I was betrothed, and three times it fell through. I might have been happy, but I also think I would have been helpless to know otherwise.”

“Happy,” said Ned as if tasting the word. “Happiness is a fragile thing in a sharp world. And something I foolishly thought I could ensure for all my children. I had it once, more than most. My wife and children, the realm at peace. And now I don’t know how it will ever settled back into place.”

“In pieces,” Brienne said, “Happiness comes in pieces. Sometimes in the darkest times they are all the more brighter than in the light.”

Happiness was Renly laying his rainbow striped cloak across her shoulders. Happiness was finding Sansa Stark in the snow, watching Arya Stark smile, being disarmed by Pod. Happiness was Jaime pulling her from the bear pit, putting Oathkeeper in her hand, and telling the Dragon Queen: _I cannot kneel, I have bad knees._

 _I dreamed of you,_ he had told her once. _I fucked loyalty._

“Perhaps you are right,” said Ned, shutting his eyes. He laid his hand in Lady’s fur, and stroked her head.

“You should rest while you can,” Brienne urged him. “We are safe here for a while yet.”

He didn’t respond. Already, his hand had stilled in Lady’s fur, his head fallen at a slight angle. Brienne covered him in her cloak, stoked the fire, and settled down to wait.

\-------

“Stop fussing.”

“You’ve made it too tight!”

“If I don’t it’s liable to fall out within the hour!”

Arya huffed and whined. Sansa ignored her as she finished the braid on the back of her head. “There,” she said. “Was it so terrible?”

Arya brought her hands back to feel the design. “Yes,” she sniffed.

“Your hair was getting matted from the wind,” complained Sansa. “It would have taken you _weeks_ to comb out.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Nymeria!” she hollered, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Nymeria!”

“She’s only just left,” said Sansa.

“I know,” Arya said sulkily. Nymeria had taken to hunting every other day, dragging the remains of the kill for Arya to skin and clean. She glanced around. “But I don’t want to linger here, I don’t like it.” They had ridden through a dense wood, where the trees grew so thick it was difficult for the sun to pierce through the thicket. It was a dark and gloomy place.”

“I half expect to see a ghost slithering through the trees,” muttered Sansa.

“If you do, give it a punch,” teased Arya. “It may only be Jon covered in flour.”

She thought to make her sister laugh, but instead Sansa looked more morose than ever.

“You miss him,” said Arya.

“Of course I do,” said Sansa, the pitch of her voice rising in surprise. There was a agitation in her words that Arya didn’t understand.

“I didn’t mean to say otherwise,” said Arya. “It’s only… you never talk about missing Jon.” That was true enough. Every day her sister fretted over Robb, over their mother, Bran, Rickon, even Theon sometimes. But of Jon, she was strangely silent.

Sansa looked at the ground. “It’s hard for me to think of Jon,” she explained, her words halting. “He’s not like Robb or Bran, he’s _alone_  and in so much danger I can scarcely breathe when I think of it. We’ll reach Winterfell, and be home, and Jon… Jon won’t be there. I don’t know _when_ I - when we’ll see him again.”  

Arya hadn’t thought of it like that. Not that she had expected Jon to be waiting at home with the rest of them… but maybe a tiny part of her had.

“Jon will be alright,” said Arya, unsure of who she was trying to convince. “He’s done this before, he’ll do it again.”

“I only wish he wasn’t alone,” said Sansa softly. “It’s a terrible thing to be alone.”

“Uncle Benjen is with him,” Arya reminded her, anxious to soothe her sister. If anyone knew the pain of loneliness, it was her sister.

“I know,” said Sansa. “But I wish _I_ was with him.”

Arya was trying to find the words to make it better, when a stick cracked behind them. In an instant, she had Needle drawn, and had placed herself between the noise and her sister.

It was a man, gaping at them slightly, as he stepped into the clearing. Sansa breathed in sharply.

“What the ruddy hell?” said the man, frowning at them.

Arya noted his weathered clothes, ragged boots, the sword at his hip, crusted with rust. _A hedge knight maybe._

“We haven’t got any food,” she warned the man.

He looked amused when she spoke. “Neither have we.”

“We?” asked Arya, as another man came tramping out of the trees.

“Me and Lou,” said the man. “There’s been no village for days, the way we’ve come. Are we close to one yet?”

Arya pointed back behind them. “Two days riding south.”

“On horseback, you mean. We’ve been walking,” grunted Lou. Arya saw his eyes dart to where she had tied their mounts.

Arya didn’t answer.

“We’re making our way west to the Rock,” said the man, taking a seat on a stump. “Seems there’s a war brewing, and wars always need good men like us.”

“And we wish you safe travels,” said Sansa mildly.

“How kind of you to say, sweet girl,” said the man, smiling at them. “So you’ll understand why we’ll need to relieve you of your mounts. That will make our journey much swifter.”

“You will do no such thing,” said Arya coolly. “You will forget you have seen us, and _walk_ until you reach that wretched lion’s pit.”

Both men laughed at her words.

“You must be daft,” snorted Lou. “Save your life, child. You won’t keep it with that skinny sword.”

Arya turned to Sansa. “Stand back.” Sansa bit her lip, and stepped away.

“Here,” the man said, flicking a half-peny at them. “I’m not entirely without honor. Take it, it’s a fair price for scrawny beasts like those.”

Just then, the hair stood up on Arya’s arm in a delightful way. She smiled. “You should run now,” she said.

The men looked belligerent now. “You - ” began the man. He stopped when Nymeria’s low snarl rent the air.

“The fuck is that?” said Lou, his hand going to the dagger on his belt.

“That’s our other sister,” Arya told them. “She doesn’t much care for thieves.”

Nymeria slunk out of the underbrush, her jaws dripping with blood. Her ears laid flat against her skull, and she growled.

Lou shoved the other man to the ground, and _ran._ Howling, the other man scrambled to his feet and tore after him.

Arya crouched beside Nymeria, and kissed her fur. “Good girl,” she whispered.

“Let’s leave now, please,” said Sansa weakly.

Arya grinned, and squatted in the grass. She found the copper half-penny, and held it up. “Do you think they wanted this back?”

\-------

Ned watched the rushing waters of the river, glinting silver in the moonlight. It extended as far as he could see in either direction. It was too rough here for crossing, but perhaps it would be calmer closer to the lake.

His leg twinged as if reminding him of how difficult a crossing might be if they did not find a bridge. If they found a low place to take the horses over, he would most likely have to be carried by Brienne. If only that damnable strap had not caught his leg on the fall.

 _If the Lannister woman had not killed the King than you wouldn’t have fallen at all,_ Catelyn’s voice insisted in his ear.

Ned pushed himself up from where he had slouched down in the grass. Brienne slept a few feet away. He glanced around for Lady, but his daughter’s wolf was nowhere to be seen. He often caught the direwolf watching him with her yellow eyes. The gods themselves had sent these creatures to his children, and for that he was grateful. But sometimes he shivered under the wolf’s gaze, as if he could feel her displeasure at Sansa’s absence.

His eyes drifted back to the river. Once he might have braved the waters with a fishing spear to catch one of the silvery perch. Now he was old and injured. Brienne would surely have to save him from drowning if he attempted to step foot in the water.

Ned remembered summer years past, taking the children to Cerwyn to play the river where the waters were low and gentle. Robb and Jon would tussle with Medger’s little son who was about their age, their baby feet sinking into the soft mud. Jory would be in the water with them, showing them how to pick the mudbugs from under the stones without getting pinched.

He was a fair swimmer, but Catelyn had been the one to teach their children.

 _“Every babe in the Riverlands learns how to swim,”_ she had insisted when Robb was but two years of age. He’d already been half in love with his wife by then, and had agreed to watch as she took their son into the warm springs. Robb had been big for his age, tall and sturdy. He wiggled in Ned’s arms as Catelyn stripped down to her shift and stepped into the water.

 _“Watch,”_  Catelyn had said, holding out her arms for Robb. She had kissed his curly head, and then held him on her lap in the water. Ned had watched in fascination as their son instinctively began to kick and push creating tiny waves.  

 _“He must know how to float,”_  his wife informed him, holding their son so he lay on his back in the water, resting in her arms. She glided Robb back and forth through the water so that he might grow accustomed to it. Ned had been amused to see Robb close his eyes after a time.

 _“He thinks it more comfortable than his feather bed,”_ Ned and said, making Catelyn laugh.

And later, Ned had carried Jon down to the springs alone, and mimicked Catelyn’s movements until he was sure that his son would be able to keep his head above water. He rocked the boy back and forth in his arms. Unlike Robb, Jon had kept his eyes open, hungrily taking in the way the sun shone through the oak canopy, the birds flitting to their nests, and Ned’s face above him.

Arya had loved the water best of all his children. On hot summer days she would chase after Jory and the boys to frolic with them in the cool streams. His daughter would love Riverrun, Ned thought. Catelyn had wanted to take the children to visit her father and brother, but it never happened. It was such a long journey, and for so many years Catelyn was either with child, or had a suckling babe. Perhaps they might have gone, before everything, now that Rickon was older. Ned wished they had.

Lady’s howl shattered his reverie, and sent Brienne catapulting to her feet.

“Where is she?” asked Brienne, disorientated from sleep.

Ned could not say. The noise seemed to be all around them, from all directions, like they were drowning in it. The dew on the grass seemed to shudder.

Brienne paced the campsite, peering through the trees, and out across the banks of the river across the open field. Their horses whinnied softly.

Suddenly Lady shot from the trees, racing across the grass in a grey blur.

“There!” shouted Brienne, pointing at the dark shapes that had crested a nearby hill. “The girls!”   

She ran ahead to meet them. Ned clambered to his feet as best he could, leaning heavily on the tree. He watched helplessly as his daughters came into view, the wolves running circles around them. They dismounted, and then Brienne was hugging them, a scarf had fallen off of Sansa’s head, and she was making a hiccuping sound.

Then they were running to him, and he opened his arms wide as if that would bring them faster. Arya reached him first, her little face beaming as if to say, _look, look, I’ve brought Sansa._

Sansa’s face he couldn’t see, not really, for the tears had come and blurred his vision. But he did not need to see his children to hold them. They fell into him, and he wrapped them in his arms as if he could keep there forever.

“Father, you’re crying,” said Sansa, wiping his tears with her thumbs.

“I was afraid,” he told her, kissing her hair and then Arya’s. “I was afraid.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was considering delaying the reunion because of how long the chapter was getting, but I just couldn’t! To keep everyone in the loop - I’m looking at this map https://quartermaester.info/ as the characters move. Commentor Dunno mentioned character movement on the last chapter, and I’m going to answer it here because I think it’s a good question. 
> 
> So Ned, Brienne, and Arya left from King’s Landing with the Lannister guards. They went about as far as the Ivy Inn on the map, and abandoned the guards there. Arya went straight south, and Ned and Brienne went west, meeting the river. When Arya and Sansa left they exited King’s Landing onto the Gold Road and ran parallel to it for a bit before going north-west up the Blackwater tributary that feeds into the God’s Eye. How long did all of this take? I have absolutely no idea. I’m following grrm’s method here and being kind of vague about the passage of time.
> 
> I’m writing from the perspective that Sansa was probably alone for a few weeks, owing to the time that the full party traveled north, and then Arya taking the time to race back. Then more time for Sansa and Arya to make their way to the river. Oh, and while Tywin was responding to the disappearance in the last chapter, he actually left for King’s Landing earlier than that because he’s Joffrey’s Hand and he wanted to assess the situation in the city and lead several garrisons of men to the capital. 
> 
> Everything is a little out of order. So roughly:
> 
> Ned, Brienne, and Arya leave Sansa  
> Tywin leaves for KL - gathers banners on the way  
> Margaery and Renly get married  
> Shireen’s chapter  
> Arya rescues Sansa  
> Tywin arrives in KL
> 
> So this chapter is about EMOTIONS. I wanted to explore how Sansa and Arya might interact without like, constant fear of death. I also wanted to address Arya’s feelings around Gendry. If y’all have any thoughts on Arya/Gendry let me know what you think. My interpretation is that Arya kind of had a crush on him that was both compounded and obscured by the near death experiences they kept having. And of course she was both a little girl, and very recently traumatized. I think for Arya, familial love is very straightforward. And she might have originally tried to fit Gendry into that narrative, but it didn’t quite fit. And while Arya is a very loving person she also hasn’t really had the space to express that love or think about her feelings.
> 
> And Arya brings up Jon around Sansa. My idea is that Sansa is more reticent about her emotions because she’s spent a very long time suppressing emotions that might make her an open target. For for Jon, he derives strength from thinking about Sansa as kind of the light at the end of a long tunnel, it’s pushing him forward and supporting his purpose. Whereas Sansa is afraid that if she spends time thinking about him, it will make it harder for her to do what needs to be done. She’s also nervous about Arya’s reaction to finding out about them. 
> 
> Also I’m going to start tracking the silliest things I google for this story. This chapter it was probably “baby swimming.”
> 
> Let me know if you have any thoughts, and thanks for reading!


	4. Feet to the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognizable dialogue from A Clash of Kings and "The Lion and the Rose." Enjoy!

The gods have never meant much to Davos, though like most men he had been known to make offerings to the Warrior before battle, the Smith when he launched a ship, and the Mother whenever Marya grew great with child. But when he left Shireen sleeping, his shirt still damp with the child’s tears, he went straight to the sept and prayed.

Septon Barre was irritable when Davos roused him, though something in his face must have made the man reconsider throwing him out. Instead of candles, Davos blessed the Seven with fresh seawater, pouring it over the feet of the statues so it darkened the wood. If he and the Septon were to drench the statues, sluicing the water over their painted heads, perhaps they would not burn when the Red Woman put them to flame. It might be taken as a sign, that the Seven still held power here.  

But Davos said nothing of the sort to the septon. He knelt on the stone floor of the sept until his knees ached, and then a little longer. It seemed a spell would be broken the moment he stepped from under the Seven’s watchful eyes. Nightmares waited for him in the storm that raged outside. Dale, Allard, Matthos, and Maric drowning in fire. Shireen crying. _They burned me._

But he knew what children’s nightmares looked like. Dale was a man grown and married now, hoping for a babe of his own, and yet Davos still remembered how he had howled upon waking from a dream of pale spiders big as hounds. For  a moon’s turn, he had crawled into their bed to sleep at night, as if his and Marya’s arms served as talismans against the monsters. He had left them like that, and returned weeks later to find Dale in his own bed, having forgotten his fears.

Shireen’s fear did not seem so easily forgotten. It would not dissolve in the light of dawn.

_Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morn, sailors be warned._

The morning air was dark with the smoke of burning gods, the sky a bloody red.

Davos tasted ash as the Seven burned. They were all afire now, the old dry wood and countless layers of paint and varnish burning with a fierce, hungry light. Heat rose, shimmering through the chilled air. Behind, the gargoyles and the stone dragons on the castle walls seemed blurred, as if Davos was seeing them through a veil of tears.

“An ill thing,” Allard declared beside him. Dale muttered in agreement.

_“Silence._ ” His voice was hard enough to make his sons flinch. “Remember where you are.” His sons were good men, but young, and Allard was especially rash. _Had I stayed a smuggler, Allard would have ended up on the Wall. Stannis spared him that end. I owe him that._

Hundreds had come to the castle to bear witness to the burning of the Seven. The smell in the air was ugly. Davos thought he might be sick on it.

Melisandre walked around the fire three times, praying once in the speech of Asshai, once in High Valyrian, and once in the Common Tongue. Davos understood only the last, and it made his heart hammer in terror.

“R’hllor, come to us in our darkness,” she called. “Lord of Light, we offer you these false gods, these seven who are one, and him the enemy. Take them and cast your light upon us, for the night is dark and full of terrors.” Queen Selyse echoed her words, pressing as close as she might to the flames. Beside her, Stannis watched impassively, his jaw hard as stone under the blue-black shadow of his tight-cropped beard. He had dressed richly, as if for the sept. Davos would have called it a cruel jape if he’d thought Stannis to be a joking man.

At least the princess had been spared this display. Shireen was nowhere to be seen, and for that Davos was grateful. Though it grieved him to think of her alone somewhere, hiding from the flames flickering outside her window.

He himself had been loath to attend, yet he knew he must. He needed to see the Red Woman at work. A man did not set sail for open water without checking the wind and the skies. _Maester Cressen would weep to see this._ The old man had challenged the Lord of Light and been struck dow for his impiety, or so the gossips told each other. Davos knew the truth. He had seen the maester slip something into the wine cup. _Poison. What else could it be? He drank a cup of death to free Stannis from Melisandre, but somehow her god shielded her._

He would have gladly killed the Red Woman for that, even before Shireen’s words had been seared into his brain. Yet what chance would he have where a maester of the Citadel had failed? He was only a smuggler raised high, Davos of Flea Bottom, the Onion Knight.

_What could be done?_

But Shireen’s face burned before him, even when he closed his eyes, brighter than any blaze. _Something must._

The Mother seemed to shudder as the flames came licking up her face, her ash drifting down onto the Father’s face like burning tears. The Maiden lay athwart the Stranger, her arms spread wide as if anticipating an embrace. A longsword had been thrust through her heart, and its leather grip was alive with flame. Davos watched as the hand of the Smith writhed and curled, the fingers blackening and falling away one by one, reduced to so much glowing charcoal. The Crone was on the bottom, the first to fall. The Warrior split with a crack, a jagged scar through the heart.

Nearby, Lord Celtigar coughed fitfully and covered his wrinkled face with a square of linen embroidered in red crabs. The Myrmen swapped jokes as they enjoyed the warmth of the fire, but young Lord Bar Emmon had turned a splotchy grey, and Lord Velaryon was watching the king rather than the conflagration.

Davos would have given much to know what he was thinking. But the high lords would be tight lipped with their discontent, and certainly would not share it with the likes of him. They had watched as the queen’s men wrecked the sept where Aegon the Conqueror had knelt before he sailed. Watched as they overturned the altars, pulled down the statues, and smashed the stained glass with warhammers. Septon Barre could only curse them, but Ser Hubard Rambton led his three sons to the sept to defend their gods. The Rambtons had slain four of the queen’s men before the others overwhelmed them. Afterward Guncer Sunglass, mildest and most pious of lords, told Stannis he could no longer support his claim. Now he shared a sweltering cell with the septon and Ser Hubard’s two surviving sons. The other lords had not been slow to take the lesson.

They would all triumph if Stannis won his throne. How they would swear they never doubted their King, their Lord of Light, the Red Woman. It made Davos ill to think it. If Stannis lost…

_Everything I am, I owe to him._

Stannis had raised him to knighthood. He had given him a place of honor at his table, a war galley to sail in place of a smuggler’s skiff. Dale and Allard captained galleys as well, Maric was oarmaster on the Fury, Matthos served his father on Black Betha, and the king had taken Devan as a royal squire. One day he would be knighted, and the two little lads as well. Marya was mistress of a small keep on Cape Wrath, with servants who called her _m’lady_ , and Davos could hunt red deer in his own woods. All this he had of Stannis Baratheon, for the price of a few finger joints. _It had been justice._ Stannis earned his loyalty that day. His second youngest bore the King’s name in honor. Davos touched the little pouch that hung from the leather thong about his neck. His fingers were his luck, and he needed luck now. _As do we all._

_“Maester Cressen urged Father to send me to the Eyrie,” Shireen had said. “To make a betrothal with House Arryn. I told him no, I must stay here.”_

_Davos would have thought she would want to run far from this place, where shadows of flames lurked around every corner. Indeed, his first thought made him think of where Allard’s rashness had been borne from. He’d thought to put her on a ship, drag all his sons from their posts, and return to Cape Wrath and Marya to hide away. Foolish and foolhardy as that would be, he supposed men did these things when they felt flames licking the soles of their feet._

_“But I will stay,” continued Shireen. “I mean to save them.”_

_“Them?” echoed Davos._

_“Mother and Father,” Shireen said as if it was the simplest thing in all the world. Though her voice quivered and her eyes were red-rimmed with tears, she continued. “All those who fell and all those who burned. I will save them from her.”_

_From her. There was a little of Stannis’ stubborness in the set of Shireen’s jaw, a little of Selyse’s furor in her eyes. But he found none of their harshness in her features._

_You are only a child, Davos wanted to tell her. I am only an onion knight. What match are we against Kings and Queens, against gods?_

Pale flames licked at the grey sky. Dark smoke rose, twisting and curling. When the wind pushed it toward them, men blinked and wept and rubbed their eyes. Allard turned his head away, coughing and cursing. _A taste of things to come_.

Melisandre was robed all in scarlet satin and blood velvet, her eyes as red as the great ruby that glistened at her throat as if it too were afire. “In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.” She lifted her voice, so it carried out over the gathered host. _“Azor Ahai, beloved of R’hllor! The Warrior of Light, the Son of Fire! Come forth, your sword awaits you! Come forth and take it into your hand!”_

Stannis strode forth at once, like a soldier marching into battle. Davos watched as his son Devan pulled a long padded glove over the king’s right hand. His boy wore a cream-colored doublet with a fiery heart sewn on the breast. Bryen Farring was similarly garbed as he tied a stiff leather cape around Stannis’ neck.

The king plunged into the fire with his teeth clenched, holding the leather cloak before him to keep off the flames. He went straight to the Maiden, grasped the sword with his gloved hand, and wrenched it free of the burning wood with a single hard jerk. Then he was retreating, the sword held high, jade-green flames swirling around cherry-red steel. Guards rushed to beat out the cinders that clung to the king’s clothing.

“A sword of fire!” shouted Queen Selyse. Ser Axell Florent and the other queen’s men took up the cry. “A sword of fire! It burns! It burns! A sword of fire!”

Melisandre lifted her hands above her head. “Behold! A sign was promised, and now a sign is seen! Behold Lightbringer! Azor Ahai has come again! All hail the Warrior of Light! All hail the Son of Fire!”

A ragged wave of shouts gave answer, just as Stannis’s glove began to smolder. Cursing, the king thrust the point of the sword into the damp earth and beat out the flames against his leg.

“Lord, cast your light upon us!” Melisandre called out.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” Selyse and her queen’s men replied

Stannis peeled off the glove and let it fall to the ground. The gods in the pyre were scarcely recognizable anymore. The head fell off the Smith with a puff of ash and embers. Melisandre sang in the tongue of Asshai, her voice rising and falling like the tides of the sea. Stannis untied his singed leather cape and listened in silence. Thrust in the ground, Lightbringer still glowed ruddy hot, but the flames that clung to the sword were dwindling and dying.

By the time the song was done, only charwood remained of the gods, and the king’s patience had run its course. He took the queen by the elbow, and escorted her back into Dragonstone, leaving Lightbringer where it stood. The Red Woman remained a moment, to watch as Devan knelt with Bryen Farring and rolled up the burnt and blackened sword in the king’s leather cloak.

But Davos looked to the burned remains of the gods. He only had eyes for the ash.

\-------

Selyse tugged the comb through Shireen’s hair, snagging on the knots. Shireen’s eyes watered as she did, and she tried not to flinch. Her mother’s hand was practiced at the tasks of a lady’s maid, forced by need. There were few maids on Dragonstone, and even fewer that would touch Shireen without fear. Natalye, who had dressed and bathed Shireen in a perfunctory manner since before she could remember, had been caught mocking the Lord of Light in the kitchens after they burned the Seven. Selyse had thrown her out, lest she taint Shireen’s ears with falseness.

Her mother had been starry-eyed since her father pulled his burning sword from the fire. _Lightbringer,_ Davos told her Melisandre proclaimed it. Shireen found mention of the name in the cold library at Dragonstone where the dampness seeped into every tome. On a moldy page in High Valyrian, Shireen read of a sword wielded by a hero, tempered in the blood of his wife’s breast. The sword was nothing without Nissa Nissa. It made Shireen queasy.

She kept her eyes on the roaring fire that had been lit in the grate at her mother’s command, and against her protests. Selyse’s cheeks were flushed with two high points of color. Sweat rolled down Shireen’s neck, and she bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

But her mother appeared oblivious to her distress. Selyse’s gaze was vague, as if she was seeing something more great and terrible than the room at Dragonstone.

“... it was a sign from the Lord of Light,” her mother had been saying. The smell of smoke and ash clung to Selyse’s gown. “ _R’hllor_ names his champion, born and crowned by the flames… he is rewarded in his sacrifice.”

“But…” Shireen began, faint and weak. “But Father does not love the Seven.”

The comb in her hair stopped abruptly, as if Selyse had just taken notice of her.

“So how can it have been sacrifice?” Shireen pressed. “If Father loves no gods, then surely it does not matter to him which are worshipped.”

_“Hush,_ child,” Selyse’s scolded her. “This is the darkness whispering in your ear, hiding your from the light of R’hllor. Your father, our King, has seen this light and bade it come into the hearts of those who misbelieve. Fear and misgivings will be naught but ash when the Lord of Light grants us victory over the enemies of darkness.”

“But we haven’t enough men to win,” said Shireen “The Lannisters have more men, and so does my uncle…”

“It matters not,” said Selyse coolly. “The Lord of Light is the only sword our King needs in hand to vanquish the usurpers.”

“And if Father fails?” Shireen asked. “Everyone will die… _Father_ might die. Does that matter not?”

Selyse came around, and held Shireen’s chin. “You must open your eyes and ears to _R’hllor_ , for that is the only way to fight the poison in your heart. Our King has been named champion of the Lord of Light, Azor Ahai come again. He will lead us from darkness, from terror. And we will stand at his side.” She stroked her thumb over Shireen’s ruined cheek. “Your birth made you a princess. The Lord of Light shall give you a shining crown.”

Shireen turned her face away. The flames had taken to her hair like dry kindling. She knew what kind of crown Melisandre intended to put on her head. “I don’t want a crown.” She blinked back tears. “I don’t _wan_ _t_  Father to go to war, I want to us to stay here, and I want Maester Cressen…”

Seleyse’s face hardened at Cressen’s name, and she pursed her lips. “You will not speak of a traitor with such fondness.”

“He loved me,” said Shireen. “And he loved Father. And _she_ killed him.”

“He himself invited death,” said Selyse. “His mind was old and weak, ripe for the Great Other to prey upon. Had Melisandre not been bathed in the light of R’hllor, she too might have been taken by the darkness. We must praise this sign of His power and absolution.” Her mother sighed. “The Lord of Light is a generous god, he will forgive the doubt in your heart. You must turn your eyes to the light...”      

Shireen squeezed her eyes shut, and rubbed the tears on her face.

“... for the night is dark and full of terrors,” her mother continued severely. She resumed brushing Shireen’s hair, and continued, even after all the tangles had been smoothed.     

\-------

_“Princess?”_

Shireen froze over the book she was reading, and held her breath. If she didn’t move, perhaps she would fade away into nothingness.

The knock at the door came, again, accompanied by the dreadful call. _“Princess?”_

_Don’t come in,_ Shireen tried to say but it was a wordless gasp. The Red Woman knew what she was, knew that she knew, she had come here to burn Shireen again, any moment her mother and father would follow in behind her and watch gravely as Melisandre set her alight, as the men tied her down.

Shireen stumbled as she stood, knocking her chair back as she did with a loud clattering on the stone. The noise made her cry out in fear and surprise. The door came open at once when she did, and Shireen shrieked even louder when Melisandre appeared.

“Princess,” Melisandre greeted her. “I didn't mean to startle you. Were you sleeping?”

“No… I was… I was reading.” Shireen hastily piled her books on the table, hunched over as if to protect them.    

Melisandre drifted over and flipped open one of the books. “This is a High Valyrian text,” she noted with what Shireen thought might be a hum of surprise. “I did not know the children of Westeros still learned this tongue.”

Shireen watched Melisandre warily. The woman smiled serenely at her, but then again, that was the same face she always wore. “I like to read stories,” said Shireen, finally. “My maester taught me a little, and I learned the rest with books. The more languages you know, the more stories you can read.”

“The world is great and wide,” Melisandre agreed. “And the Lord of Light illuminates all.” She tilted her head, studying Shireen.

Shireen’s face felt stiff and tight. Her palms were slick with sweat. Her eyes darted to the closed door. Had Melisandre locked it when she entered? She should have been paying closer attention to her movements, now she was trapped with no escape.

“Are you so fearful of me, Princess?” Melisandre asked.

A small, broken noise escaped Shireen. She tried to find her bravery, but it kept slipping away, just out of reach. _Brave Danny Flint dressed as a boy, and ran away to take the black._ Shireen had heard the beginning of the song years ago, and fallen in love with it. She hummed it under her breath day and night, until her father had caught her at it. Stannis had told her the end of the story, the verses that revealed the cruel fate that befell Danny. It was all Shireen could think of now. Not Danny’s bravery, but the fear she must have felt when she was discovered.

“I’m not afraid,” Shireen whispered.

“Fear is an illusion.” The Red woman’s words were like snakes slithering down her chin. “Created by the Great Other, the gold of darkness, cold, and death. To lure you from the light of R’hllor.”

“I was named in the light of the Seven,” said Shireen.

“False light,” Melisandre said. “Lies and fables.” She reached forward, and pushed Shireen’s hair back from where it hung over her face. Her nails were sharp where they brushed across her skin. “There are but two gods, one of light and joy, and one of evil. Eternally at war.”

Shireen shivered. “My father has other wars to fight.”

Melisandre shook her head. “The petty squabbles of men cannot distract us from our true purpose. There is only one war that will matter in the end. You will see this to be true.”

She took Shireen by the shoulders, and guided her to sit in front of the looking glass.

Shireen stared at her own face, pale with darkened circles under her eyes. She seldom looked at herself, shamed by the dry, cracking skin on her cheek, hard to the touch like stone.  

“What do you see in the mirror, Princess?” Melisandre was so close, her lips brushed Shireen’s ear.

Shireen’s eyes darted to Melisandre’s serene reflection beside her own. “Me,” she said. “I see my face.” She reached up and laid her fingertips against her cheek. She couldn’t feel her own touch.  

Melisandre smiled. “You learned of Seven hells, and Seven heavens, Princess, but there is only one hell. The one we live in.”

“I don’t believe that,” Shireen murmured, dipping her chin down to her chest.

“Look again.”

Reluctantly, Shireen raised her head. Her lips parted in shock. The greyscale scars were shrinking, melting away to leave smooth, pearly skin in their stead. Shireen stared at her own face, never touched by stone, perfect as the day she was born. Her eyes welled.

She looked at Melisandre. The ruby burned bright at the woman's throat.  

“It is no trick,” the Red Woman told her. “See yourself as the Lord of Light sees you bathed in fire.”

Shireen turned back to the mirror. With trembling hands, she touched the skin of her cheek. The sensation prickled, new and unfamiliar. She shuddered, and two tears dripped down in matching, unbroken lines down her face. In her darkest thoughts, she had wondered if the greyscale scars burned when the flames licked them. Or if they had been the only thing left of her.

“Light and dark are at war, even within ourselves,” Melisandre told her. Her voice sounded hazy. “It is the first hurdle to overcome.” She sighed, and the ruby around her neck dimmed.

Shireen blinked. The side of her face was burning, and she cried out. Her cheek was stiff and hard beneath her hand again.

“Cast away your fear, Princess,” said Melisandre. “Fill your heart with light, so that you may walk the shining path of R’hllor. Do you see it now?”

Shireen turned away from the looking glass, and buried her face in her hands. “Yes,” she said, through tears. “I see it.”

She stayed huddled on the ground until the Red Woman left. Only then did she dare to raise her head. Her face was tight and stiff. The right side from drying tears. The left from stone.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Brave Danny Flint was a character I came across while looking for heroines for Shireen to look up to, and at first glance I was like !!!!! this is awesome! A girl who disguises herself and fights on the Wall? And then I read the rest of the wiki page and realized that she was brutally murdered when the Night's Watch found out she was a girl. So I liked to imagine Shireen loving the first part of the song, the happy part about this brave girl. Unfortunately Stannis would be like. No. That's not the story.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	5. Harry the Hare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognizable dialogue from A Clash of Kings and “The North Remembers” and “The Night Lands.” Enjoy!

The ends of Jon’s hair were dripping into a puddle that had collected at his collar. He was soaked to the bone, shivering under his drenched cloak.

His companions had their heads bowed against the wind and icy rain. Even the ravens had gone silent in their rattling cages, heads tucked beneath their wings.

The constant pounding of the rain and the droplets clinging to his lashes made the blurred, grey world feel more like a dream. They hadn’t come across a soul since leaving the Wall, only empty villages, vacant like tombs. It seemed that even the ghosts had fled for livelier parts.

“Craster’s Keep’s likely to had melted down into that shit hill it sits on,” Othor muttered as they sat huddled together, gnawing on salt cod. “Washed away by the shit river.” 

“Wouldn’t bother me none,” grumbled Dywen, clacking his wooden teeth together. “Craster’s filth. A kinslayer, liar, raper, and craven. And worse, there’s a  _ cold  _ smell to that one, there is.” 

Jon’s heart started to pound. The sound of the rain drumming against the ground vibrated against his ears like the dead marching their relentless pace.  He closed his eyes to calm himself, burying his nose in the damp fur at his neck. It was musty and stunk of his sweat, but it was a living smell. Nothing like the smell of  _ cold.  _

And he could almost pretend it smelled of soap and lemons. 

He slept beneath the bloody faces of the weirwood trees, one hand in Ghost’s fur. He whispered his prayers into the roots in case the gods were listening. He thought of his little sister lulling herself to sleep over the names on her list and made his own.  _ Arya. Nymeria. Rickon. Shaggydog. Bran. Summer. Robb. Greywind. Father. Uncle Benjen. Sam. Gilly. Little Sam. Brienne. Lady Stark. Ghost. Lady.  _ And  _ Sansa, Sansa, Sansa.  _

Jon dreamed of sitting against Sansa legs as she embroidered by candlelight. Every so often, she’d stop her work and run her fingers through his hair. Her nails scraped his scalp, tugging gently at his curls. When he tipped his head back into her lap, she’d drop everything and kiss him. Her long, loose hair would tickle his cheeks, her smile curving against his. 

When he woke, he was lying in three inches of muck. His mouth tasted like cod.

“Leave me here to die,” he heard Toad moan through a mouthful of mud. 

“Are you sure?” snickered Matt. 

Toad screamed loud enough to send the ravens banging against their cages when Matt and Grenn upended a bucket of icy water over him. 

“I’ll kill you both,” Toad shrieked, sopping wet and shivering in the predawn chill. He gave chase, but Matt and Grenn outran him, laughing uproariously.   

“Fool green-boys,” grunted Jafer. “We’re not south of the Wall anymore.” 

Dywen caught Grenn by his ear and cuffed him hard. The old man bellowed at them until the three boys scrambled to saddle and ready the horses. Jon watched them with a sliver of envy, and a touch of mourning. 

They clambered back onto their horses with growling stomachs and stiff limbs. When the landscape began to prod at Jon’s memories with dull familiarity, he sat up straighter in his saddle. And when the top of Craster’s Keep came into view he almost felt relief. Almost. 

“See that none of you young bucks go nosing about Craster’s wives, you hear,” Dywen warned them. He twisted around to glare at them. 

“How many wives does he have truly?” Grenn asked, leaning in eagerly. 

“More than you or I ever will, brother,” said Dywen. “It’s not so hard when you breed your own.” 

Matt looked a bit green. “That’s foul.” 

“Enough,” Benjen commanded. “There’s more than enough out here that would see us cut down in a heartbeat. Craster’s no enemy until we make him one.” 

Sam had sat up, ramrod straight when the Keep had come into view. He urged his dray horse forward, and pulled ahead.

The heavy rain had eroded the earthen dike that surrounded the hut. The swollen river rushed past the east side, eating at the earth. They rode through the open gate flanked by two animal skulls on high poles. The bear still had bits of flesh clinging to the bone. Two women in dear dresses yelped when they spotted the men, and scurried into the house.

“He’ll be waiting for us inside,” grunted Benjen, wiping sweat and dirt from his face. “Tend to the horses, and wait until you’re sent for. Othor, Jafer, with me.” They disappeared into the hut. 

Toad looked longingly towards the house. “We’ll be sleeping warm and dry tonight, yeah?” 

The ravens were squawking and screeching for meat. Sam threw a handful of corn at their cages in an effort to quiet them. It scattered everywhere and spilled into the mud. The ravens screamed their displeasure. Sam’s hands were shaking, and his head was swiveling back and forth as he surveyed the house. 

“Steady, brother,” Jon murmured, gripping Sam’s arm in comfort. “Steady.” 

Sam exhaled in a whoosh. “She’s so close,” he whispered. “I can’t stand it.” 

Jon squeezed his shoulder. He could not begrudge Sam his nerves. “Tend to your horse. We’ll wait for Benjen to call for us.” 

Sam nodded mutely, and began brushing the foam and sweat from his horse. The animal jerked and whined in fear when Ghost slunk into view, his muzzle brown with dried blood. 

“Ghost to me,” Jon ordered. He tangled his fingers in Ghost’s fur, and kept the wolf tight to his side as they waited. 

\-------

Craster was just as ugly as Jon remembered with one ear missing and a drooping mouth that gave him a cruel look. He was crouched in the only chair, sitting about the fire pit dug in the dirt floor. 

There were women everywhere, tending to boiling pots and chopping roots. Their dark, lanky hair hung over their faces. Jon searched, but could not see that any of them were Gilly. Or maybe it was that everyone of them was Gilly. 

They’d been served horns of thin, yellow beer that looked like horse piss. Jon wouldn’t have doubted it was, if Craster had been rich enough to own any horses. 

“We’re searching for two rangers lose,” Uncle Benjen was telling Craster. “Ser Waymar Royce and Gared. They would have been with a young man named Will.” 

Craster seemed to take enjoyment in making them wait, as he swirled his drink. “Aye, I might recall. The lordling no older than one of these pups. Too proud to sleep under my roof, him in his sable cloak and black steel. My wives gave him big cow eyes all the same.” Craster turned his squint on the nearest of the women. “Gared says they were chasing raiders. I told him with a commander that green, best not to catch them. Gared was half-bad for a crow. Had less ears than me, that one. Frostbite took them, same as mine.” He laughed, a wet, hacking sound.

Beside Jon, Sam dropped his cup, spilling his beer. His ears had turned red, and he was breathing heavily. Jon didn’t dare follow his gaze.

“They give piggies crow’s wings now?” Craster gave a nasty smile, showing a mouthful of broken, brown teeth. He pinched the girl standing at his side with a pitcher. “Give piggy another drink, girl.” 

Sam’s eyes were on the table as the girl refilled his cup with trembling hands. But his gaze kept darting to behind Craster. 

“Where was Ser Waymar bound when he left?” Uncle Benjen pressed. 

Craster shrugged. “Happens I have better things to do than tend to the comings and goings of crows.” He drank a pull of beer and set the cup aside. “Had no good southron wine up here for a bear’s night. I could use some wine, and a new axe. Mine’s lost its bite, can’t have that. I got women to protect.” He gazed around at his scurrying wives. 

“Seven wildling villages we passed on our way, and all abandoned,” said Benjen. Jon had seldom seen his uncle’s face tight with such disdain. “Yours is the first face we’ve seen since the Wall. Where have they all gone?” 

Craster tilted the cup in his hands. “I could tell you, but I’m thirsty.”

Benjen’s face hardened further. “Grenn, Matt. There’s a barrel of Dornish wine on the sledge. Bring it here.”  

They hurried reluctantly back into the rain. Craster watched them with a silent smugness until the barrel had been opened, and his cup filled to the brim.

“They’ve gone North,” drawled Craster, licking his lips. “To join up with Mance Rayder.” He lifted his cup, chortling. “The King-Beyond-the-Wall.” 

“What’s he king of?” snarled Othor. “A frozen lake somewhere?” 

“There’s much I could tell you of Mance Rayder and his doings, if I had a mind,” slurred Craster, the wine sloshing into his lap. “The empty villages are his work. You would have found this hall abandoned as well, if I were a man to scrape to such. He sends a rider, tells me I must leave my own Keep to come grovel at his feet. I sent the man back, but kept his tongue. It’s nailed to that wall there.” He pointed, and Jon winced and looked away. “Might be that I could tell you where to seek Mance Rayder. If I had a mind.” He smiled again. Taunting them. 

Benjen pushed ahead as if he hadn’t heard him. “For what purpose did he send for you? It’s hardly like wildlings to gather.”

Craster leaned forward, his eyes glassy. “He’s got an army. More men than any of your Southern Kings can scrounge up.” 

Benjen stared back. “And where does he intend to march an army like that?”

“When you’re as north as north goes, there’s only one direction to turn,” said Craster. “But not me and mine. My roots are sunk deep.” He grabbed a passing girl by the wrist, and Jon seized the back of Sam’s jerking.  _ Gilly.  _

She was thinner than he remembered, though her belly swelled noticeably beneath her dress. Her big eyes were gaunt and fearful in her pale face. Her free hand drifted to her stomach when Craster seized her. 

“Tell them wife,” Craster grunted, shaking Gilly. “Tell these crows how well content we are.” 

Gilly’s lower lip trembled. “This is our place,” she said. “Craster keeps us safe. Better to die free than live as a slave.” When Craster released her, she fled without looking back.

“You’ll be wanting to sleep beneath my roof, I suppose, and eat me out of pigs.” Craster surveyed them disparagingly. 

“A roof would be most welcome,” said Benjen after a moment. His uncle’s face was a mask. “It’s been hard riding from the Wall. We’ve brought our own food, and good steel for you."

“Then you’ll guest here for a night. No longer, I’m not that fond of crows. The loft’s for me and mine, but you’ll have all the floor you like.” 

Benjen nodded sharply in thanks. 

“And one more thing.” Craster bared his brown teeth. “Any man lays his hand on my wives he loses that hand.” 

\-------

Sam hadn’t slept a wink. He lay on the cold, dirt floor looking up at the wooden slats of the loft. He imagined he could pick out Gilly’s breathing from among the dozens of sleeping people. She snored a little when she slept on her back, a soft little wheeze that never failed to make Sam smile when he laid his head down beside hers. 

In the early morning darkness, he saw women begin to creep down the ladder to feed the pigs and stoke the fire. Sam watched as Gilly fetched water, and filled an iron pot. Never once did she look at him. It made something fragile break in his chest. 

_ “She doesn’t remember,” _ Sam had whispered to Jon as they lay curled by the dying fire. 

Everything gone. All of their triumphs, all of their sorrows, their fears, and memories, and smiles. Sam knew the face of their son, and Gilly did not. Such a strange pain it was. There were no words to describe it, no stories that spoke of it. 

Craster was dead to the world, snoring away in his bed. Sam thought to climb the ladder, to stab the monstrous man through his black heart, set his foul home ablaze. But he didn’t. He lay quietly, and watched Gilly stir the fire. A voice in his ear, that sounded like Randyll Tarly, told him he was  _ weak. Craven, craven, craven.  _

The brothers were stirring from their places in the dirt, and Bejen was calling for then to break their fast when Sam saw Gilly slip outside with a handful of radish tops. After a moment, he followed. 

It had stopped raining during the night. The cold morning air had turned the world to crystal, the dew on the grass frosty and sparkling. Sam spotted Gilly crouched by two small rabbits’ cages, pushing the radish greens through the bars. 

“You have rabbits?” 

Gilly froze when he spoke, and Sam stiffened as well. Her eyes darted to the rabbits, and back to him again. Sam felt very small. It was possibly the stupidest question he could have asked her.  _ Of course she has rabbits, they’re right there.  _

“Yes… yes m’lord,” she mumbled. She scrunched her hands up in her skirt, and stared at the ground. She was waiting for him to leave. 

Sam fumbled for his tongue. “Do they… do they have names?” 

He felt hot when Gilly looked at him as if he had two heads. 

“They’re for eating, m’lord,” she said slowly. She looked back at the rabbits. “Doesn’t seem right, really, to name something that you’re going to be eating.” 

“No, no, you’re quite right,” Sam agreed hastily. “Would be a bit barbaric, that.”

It fell silent, and Sam sat down awkwardly on a barrel rather than leave. She glanced at him, and when he didn’t move, she went back to feeding the rabbits. 

“Do you name your rabbits in the South?” she asked. 

“Ah,” said Sam, flustered. “Well some of them we do, I suppose. I found a baby rabbit in the woods once. Its foot was hurt, so I brought it home to my sister, Talla. She hid it in her room, feeding it bits from the kitchen until it was well enough to hop again. She called it Harry. Bit of a joke really…” 

Gilly was frowning slightly, in that way she did when she found him puzzling or exasperating.

“Hare is another word for rabbit, you see,” Sam hastened to explain. “So… so she named him  _ Harry.  _ She thought herself rather clever at the time.” 

Gilly shook her head. “Why would you have two words for the same exact thing? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Ah, well it might be that it makes everything a bit more interesting,” said Sam. “It would get boring after awhile if everything was named the same.” 

“Like if all people had the same names,” said Gilly. 

Sam smiled. “Exactly.” 

Gilly sat back on her heels, folding her arms above the swell of her stomach. Then she looked behind him, and shrieked. 

Sam fell off the barrel in surprise, and scrambled to draw the dagger at his hip. But it was only Ghost, his hot breath making white puffs in the crisp morning air. He trotted forward, forcing Gilly to press herself up against the rabbit cages. 

_ “Ghost!” _ Sam scolded, hurrying forward to pull the wolf back. He grabbed the scruff of Ghost’s neck and pushed him away. “Shoo! Shoo! You’re scaring her.”

Ghost cast a hungry look at the panicking rabbits, and then slunk in the direction of the woods.

Sam turned back to Gilly. She had her hands up against her heart, and she was tracking Ghost with wide eyes. 

“Did he frighten you?” Sam asked gently. “I’m sorry, he didn’t mean it. He was only interested in the rabbits.” He touched her arm lightly. 

She looked down at her arm, and yanked it away from him. He stepped back apologetically.

“You shouldn’t touch me,” whispered Gilly. 

“I’m sorry,” said Sam. “I only wanted to make sure that you weren’t hurt.” 

Gilly bit her lip. “You’re very brave.”

Sam went pink. “Not… not really.”  _ You’re the brave one.  _

“It’s only what needs to be done,” said Sam. “We’re sworn to protect and defend. Even if that means going into danger.”

She was studying him, her mouth working slightly.  _ Ask me,  _ he begged her in his head.  _ Ask me.  _

“M’lord, I beg you,” she said in a low, quick whisper. “When you go, take me with you.” 

He exhaled hard, and she continued before he could speak. 

“It’s for the baby, not for me,” she said. “If it’s a girl, that’s not so bad, she’ll grow a few years and then he’ll marry her. But Nella says it’s to be a boy, and she’s had six and knows these things. He gives the boys to the gods. Gives them to white cold, he does, and of late it comes more often. That’s why he started giving them sheep, even though he has a taste for mutton. Only now the sheeps are gone too. Next it will be the dogs, until…” She ran out of air and words. She stood, eyes pleading with him. 

“Yes,” he said, wanting nothing more than to soothe away her fear. “Yes.” 

Gilly drew herself up, looking startled. “Yes, m’lord? Yes, you’ll take me with you?” 

He glanced behind him, and bent his head near hers. “What’s your name?” 

“Gilly.” 

He was so close, he could count her eyelashes. 

_ Talla squealed over little Sam, and fluttered her eyelashes against his rosy cheeks. _

_ “It’s called butterfly kisses,” Talla told Gilly through giggles. “Haven’t you ever tried it?” _

_ “Not many butterflies in the North,” said Gilly. _

_ But Sam found Gilly later, rubbing her nose against the babe’s tummy, and fluttering her eyelashes. “Butterfly,” she was cooing. “Butterfly.” _

“Gilly, my name is Sam. And I swear, on all that there is, I will help you.” He checked behind him again, and then pulled his mother’s thimble from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. It had made the long journey from Horn Hill, nestled in his cloak. “I must speak to someone who will help us, but take this. It belonged to my mother. Take it as my promise to you.” 

Gilly held the thimble tight in her fist, and stared at him with wide eyes. 

“I promise,” he said again, heart hammering beneath his ribs. “I promise.” 

\-------

“You’re sure of this?” Sam’s grip was white-knuckled on the reins of his horse, and he was bouncing nervously in the saddle. Gilly stood, not fifty yards from them, watching. And he was  _ leaving  _ her. 

“We’ve discussed it,” Jon reminded him softly. “And agreed. This is the safest way.” 

Sam bowed his head. It was one thing to know the truth. It was another thing to believe it.  

“Try not to worry,” said Jon in a low voice. “She’ll be safe with him.” He nudged Sam. “She’ll be safer if you don’t draw attention to yourself. Look ahead.” 

Sam stared at where Ranger Stark was mounting his horse. Gilly pricked at the edge of his senses, willing him to turn around to where he could stare at her. He knew she only half-trusted them, and well expected that he was leaving her to her fate without a second thought. 

But what was she to expect? He was a stranger to her, no one. 

_ “When the night falls, slip away and run to the edge of the woods,” Jon had said to her. “Tell no one of your plan. The white wolf will be waiting for you. Follow him. He’ll lead you to us. He won’t let harm come to you or your babe.”  _

_ “The wolf, m’lord?” Gilly asked, her voice shaking.  _

_ “Yes,” Jon said. Sam nodded beside him, smiling encouragingly. “He’s my beast, and I’ve told him to protect you above all else. To take you with us now would be folly. My uncle and the other rangers will send you back. We need to be a ways away from here before you join us.”  _

_ “But…” Gilly’s eyes darted nervously. “The cold ones, m’lord. These are the gods’ woods. They have a taste for flesh.  _

_ Sam tried to keep his nauseousness at bay as he reassured her. “Take this dagger. Ghost will be there to protect you, but you shall have this as well. It is a dagger of frozen fire, and it will shatter the cold ones to pieces with one touch of the blade.”  _

_ Gilly stared at the dagger in her hand.  _

_ “No harm shall come to you,” Jon said firmly, as if he could draw the fact into existence. “Go to the woods tonight. Ghost will be waiting.”  _

_ “Yes, m’lord,” whispered Gilly. “I will do as you say. I have nothing to lose.”  _

“I should be going with her,” said Sam. Again. The knowledge beat a staccato against his skull.  _ Craven, craven, craven.  _

“It can’t be done,” said Jon. “It’s got nothing to do with bravery now. You can’t be missing when we leave. This is the only way.” 

“I don’t like it.” Sam knew he sounded sulky, fretful and childish. All the things a man shouldn’t be. But it didn’t stop him from speaking. “I don’t like any of this, I hate it.” 

Jon sighed. “I know, brother. I know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also don’t mind me and my silly ass chapter titles, I realized that harry the hare sounded like Harry the heir, and it was all over.


	6. Melted Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! As you can see, I'm trying to get back into the swing of things because I love this story and I love all of you! Anyway, enjoy this installment while I go back to researching all the people attending the harvest festival at Winterfell. Quick notes for this chapter: it does deal with domestic and sexual abuse throughout the first part although it is not explicit. There is also mention of miscarriage (if you want to skip stop reading at "grease from her hands" and control F to "Gilly watched Rowen"). 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think and thanks for reading <3

Gilly squatted over the fire pit, stirring the stew. Sweat was sliding into her eyes and blurring her vision, despite the chill in the air. _At nightfall go to the woods._

She wiped her face with her apron. Her heart was pounding, her breath erratic. Suddenly, something moved deep in her belly, and she clutched at her stomach in terror.

“Dyah,” Gilly whimpered. It was hard to force the words out. “Dyah, the babe is coming.” She began to shake. It hadn’t been long enough. _Nightfall, nightfall, nightfall._

The older woman dropped her pot with a clatter. She pushed Gilly’s sweaty hair away from her forehead.

“The babe?” whispered Ferny. “It’s much too early.”

“Hush,” murmured Dyah. She pressed two fingers against Gilly’s neck, and laid a hand over her stomach.

Gilly started crying, great heaving sobs that she stifled against the palms of her hands.

“Ferny, keep everyone busy while I tend to Gilly,” Dyah commanded. “Don’t let him see that she’s missing.”

Ferny nodded, scooping up the dropped pot and taking Gilly’s spot at the fire.

“I’m going to be sick,” gasped Gilly, feeling her stomach roll.

“Outside,” directed Dyah.

Gilly bolted, and wretched into the dirt. Dyah pulled her hair back, and when she was finished, she wiped her mouth with a rag. Gilly squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. Her head was pounding, and her chest felt like it was being crushed in a giant’s grip.

“Breath, child, breath,” said Dyah.

“The babe…” hiccuped Gilly.

“... is not coming,” Dyah told her. “Look.” She pulled up Gilly’s dress and checked between her legs. “There’s no blood.”

Gilly looked, but the buzzing in her ears made it hard to focus. Her stomach twinged again, and she rubbed it. “But I can feel the babe, he’s trying to get out.”

Dyah shook her head. “It’s normal for the child to move. Do you remember Berga’s pregnancy with Bellie? You could feel her move, and Berga could too.”

Gilly tried to think back. She had been younger then. Berga had been carrying her babe high, and Nella who knew these things, said it meant that she was having a girl. Gilly remembered now, laying her hands against the smooth swell of Berga’s stomach and feeling Bellie’s fluttery kicks against her hands.

“Breath,” Dyah instructed. She took Gilly’s hands and spread her fingers. Gilly knew this trick. For every breath she took, Dyah would put down one finger. When her hands were in fists, Gilly was breathing easier. She lifted her face, letting the cold mist drift over her hot skin. “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

Dyah was silent for a moment, combing her fingers through Gilly’s hair. “It will be well again after a time. It always is. Trust me on that.”

Gilly looked at the dirt, and crossed her arms over her belly. Dyah had given many sons to the cold ones over the years. Gilly knew she should trust her, but the idea of losing the son that grew inside her seemed more painful than death. She wondered what the babe looked like now, and imagined the tiniest babe there ever was, pushing out his arms for her.

Hali came out of the hut. She offered Gilly a pouch of mint leaves. Gilly took some, but grimaced when she bit down. She did not like they way they made her mouth feel cold.

Gilly chewed slowly as Hali and Dyah talked over her. It was almost like being a child again, though it had been a long time since that was so.

“Do you feel well enough to come back?” Dyah asked.

Thinking of the dark, smoky interior of the hut made the bile and panic rise up in her throat again.

“Please, might I sit a little longer in the air?” Gilly begged.

Dyah sighed. “Take the time you need.”

Gilly sat on the ground, long after they’d gone, tracing swirls in the dirt with the tip of her finger. She’d lived her whole life on this piece of earth never venturing farther than the clearing.

She looked toward the forest. The trees loomed, dark and impenetrable. Their shadows stretched toward her in the setting sun, like reaching claws. No one would need to know that she’d ever thought to leave. The crows would forget about her. If she went in now, Nella would try to make her eat something to settle her stomach. Poesy would sleep with her head on Gilly’s shoulder. Her life would march along as it always did. She would have the babe… and one day. It would all be well.

Gilly sat quiet and still until the world fell into darkness. Then she picked herself up and went into the hut. Her sisters were cleaning up from their meal. Mouse sidled up beside her and slipped her a bit of pork and bread, still warm from the fire. Gilly ate it slowly, licking the grease from her hands.

Craster was drunk on the crow’s good wine. When Rowen passed by with the pitcher, he dragged her onto his lap and drank straight from the vessel. It spilled down his front, and soaked the lap of Rowen’s dress. Rowen said nothing, her face was blank. She’d been with child, Gilly remembered, some time past. But it had died before being being born. It had hardly looked anything like a babe at all. Still Craster had took what was there and given it to the gods. She hadn’t been with child since.

Craster pushed Rowen off his lap and towards the loft. She climbed the ladder, her toes curling around the rungs. He followed, unsteady on his feet and more so on the ladder. Rowen’s foot dangled by his head. For an instant, Gilly imagined her drawing back her heel and knocking him back to the ground. It might bloody his nose, knock him out cold, or gods forbid he might crack his head and be laying there dead on the ground.

But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t dare. None of them would.

Gilly watched Rowen crawl into the loft and disappear with Craster.

“How are you feeling?” whispered Miyah, a little braver now that he was gone.

“I felt the babe move,” said Gilly.

Miyah bit her lip. Nella must have told them all that it was a boy. “But you feel better now?”

“A little.” Gilly put her hand to her head. “The smoke makes me feel sick.”

Miyah nodded. “It was leather that did it for me. Couldn't stand the smell of it for ages. But that will fade.”  

She meant it to be comforting, but it only made Gilly feel sicker. Methodically, she helped scour the pots and stoke the fire.

“Aren’t you coming?” Poesy looked at her expectantly, one hand on the ladder to the loft.

Gilly shook her head. The motion made it hurt. “It’s so hard to breathe up there. I’m going to get some air.”

Poesy jumped down. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” Gilly said, sharper than she meant it to sound. “No, I’d rather be alone.”

The corners of Poesy’s mouth turned down. To make up for the hurt, Gilly kissed her cheek.

_“Nella says it’s a boy,” Gilly whispered._

_Poesy was silent. The night before, she’d fallen asleep with her hand on top of Gilly’s stomach. Now, she did not touch her._

_“What am I going to do?” Gilly’s voice cracked._

_“Perhaps the next one will be a girl,” murmured Poesy._

_Gilly shook her head. “But this one…”_

_“This one will protect us,” said Poesy. “A gift for the gods.”_

“Don’t be long,” Clova scolded her. “You know we’re not allowed outside at night. He’d better not wake and find you missing. It’ll be all of us getting it because you wanted some air.”

“I won’t be long. I only want a moment.” Gilly turned away so that none of them could see how Clova’s words seared her down to the bone. Already her breaths were coming short and fast as she imagined his rage at finding her missing. Not only a wife, but a pregnant one at that. And it wouldn’t be she bearing the brunt of that rage.

 _I’m sorry,_ She wanted to say. Instead, she said nothing at all. Instead, she went to the rabbits’ hutch where she had stashed a drinking horn and a bit of food. The rabbits were sleeping soundly in a heap, their little noses twitching.

_Do they have names? Doesn’t seem right to name something you’re going to be eating._

_Harry._ Gilly mouthed the name silently. It was a good name for a boy. _Sam. Jon._ Three new names. Perhaps if she asked, the crows would tell her more.

She heard a high shriek, and whipped her head around, but it was only the wind whistling through the trees. If she waited any longer, it would be too late. Someone would come looking, calling for her. And she didn’t know if she could bear to hear that call and not return.

The woods had never looked darker than they did now. Gilly felt for the dagger that she had hidden in her sleeve. The crow Sam said it had the strength to kill gods, but it was she that would have to wield it.

Gilly remembered the stories that Geana and Hyra liked to tell around the fire. They claimed the gods had teeth like knives and a touch that would turn you to ice. On the nights that Craster took a babe for the cold ones, no one slept. Silently, they all lay awake. Waiting and wondering.

A stick cracked under her foot. She scared herself so badly, she crouched down with her hands over her ears.

 _I can’t take another step._ Her stomach fluttered. “I’m sorry,” she told the babe. “I can’t.”

A cold chill lifted the hair off the nape of her neck. The leaves rustled behind her.

Gilly opened her eyes. The dagger bit into the flesh of her palm when she squeezed it into a fist. There was something behind her.

She bit her tongue to hold into her scream and whipped around, dagger raised high in the air. And stopped.

It was the white wolf, standing silently in the shadows of the trees. He was watching her with his terrible red eyes.

“Gh.. Ghost,” Gilly whispered. That was the name the crows had called him. She wondered if he could smell her fear.

The wolf laid down with his head on his paws, and looked at her. Gilly watched him warily. He didn’t look so scary like that. Gilly couldn’t even see his teeth.

She took a step closer to him. And then another. He cocked his head at her. She sank down at his side. “You’re a good wolf, aren’t you?”

Very slowly, she reached out and touched one of his ears. The hair was coarse and rough under her fingertips. The wolf seemed to make a noise like a sigh. “The boys said you would protect me and my babe,” Gilly whispered. “Is that true?”

The wolf stood languidly, and pushed his nose against her belly.

Gilly grew bolder and stroked his head. “Good wolf. Can you help me? I need to find the crows. I need to find your master.”

Ghost butted his head against her hand, and began to walk away. After a few paces, he looked back for her. Gilly started to turn around, to take one more look at the place that had been her home for her entire life. But she didn’t, and followed the beast into the brush.

\-------

It was cold the first morning she woke up alone. Gilly opened her eyes to see the grey light peeking through the leaves. It was strange to sleep in such quiet. Nobody was snoring, or wheezing, or whispering. There were no elbows in her side, no knees in her back. There were no pigs to feed, no pots to clean, no roots to chop.

She rolled over into a faceful of fur. The white wolf was sprawled out beside her, radiating heat. Feeling brave, she buried her face in Ghost’s stomach. The wolf snorted, and rolled around to lick her ear.

“I suppose your’s is a boy’s name too,” Gilly told the wolf. “Now I have four names, you see. Sam, Jon, Harry, and Ghost. Though it’d be an ill thing to call a babe Ghost, I think. It might lead to bad things.”

The wolf watched her with scarlet eyes.

“Not that your’s is a bad name, of course,” Gilly assured him. “But you’re a wolf, not a babe.” Gilly sighed. “I’m not used to having no one to talk to. I’ve never been alone before.”

Ghost stretched and stood. Gilly followed him, gathering up the folds of her cloaks. She rubbed her stomach thoughtfully. “When do babes start to talk? I can’t remember.” Dyah would know.

Guilt rose up in her throat. She didn’t want to think about the moment that Poesy and Mouse came looking for her. They would have run to find the others when she was nowhere to be found. The worst of course would have come when Craster woke up. Would they try to hide her disappearance? How long would it be before he noticed?

She whimpered, and bent over to be sick. Ghost whined. She wiped her mouth with shaky hands. “Show me where to go,” she told the wolf. “I want to go.”

They walked until Gilly’s feet ached. When they stopped at night, Ghost went hunting. Gilly sat hunched with the dagger clutched in her hand until he returned with two bloody rabbits hanging from his jaws.

She skinned one, and roasted it over the fire. It was strange to have the whole thing to herself. She didn’t finish it, and handed the last bit to Ghost.

Gilly dreamed of babes wailing, and cold hands coming for her out of the darkness. Ghost licked her tears away when she woke, and they kept on moving. Every so often, a crow would caw, it’s cry echoing through the empty woods. Gilly jumped every time. She hated the way they tilted their sleek, black heads and watched her with beady eyes.

It was the birds that woke her up. There seemed to be hundreds of them in the dark treetops, screaming and flapping their wings. She reached for Ghost, and found the wolf tense and snarling, every hair standing on end.

And then she smelled the cold. It was the strangest thing, a physical sensation burning her lungs when she tried to breath.

“No, please,” begged Gilly. _They’ve come for me. They’ve come for the babe._ Her hands scrabbled in the dirt for the black dagger. It pulsed in her hand, her sweat slicking the blade.

The rain that had been falling for the last day and a half had turned to snow. When the snowflakes touched her freezing skin, they did not melt.

Ghost was growling, a low insistent sound. His ears were flat against his skull, his tail between his legs. He slunk around Gilly in circles. It was as if he couldn’t pinpoint the direction of the threat.

There was a sigh and a whisper. It made Gilly think of a white hand vanishing under black, icy waters. She turned.

She saw the god’s eyes first. A terrible and unnatural blue. Ana had blue eyes. Blue as cornflowers, Dyha called them. But these eyes were nothing like Ana’s. They weren’t human. They made Gilly feel terror down to her bones, like the creature had reached an icy hand down her throat and pulled her fear up so it choked her.

Her teeth chattered when she tried to scream. She could not find her breath.

The god was walking towards her, slow and fast all at once. Ghost let out a piercing howl, a sound that Gilly had never heard before. The wolf lunged at the monster, fangs open and dripping. His jaw closed around the skeleton arm, but could not find purchase. Ghost’s fangs scraped harmlessly across the creature’s frozen flesh. It made a noise like the screeching of the crows. Or maybe it was that the crows had not yet ceased their screaming.

With one smooth movement, the god caught Ghost under his belly and threw the wolf against a tree like he weighed nothing. Ghost yelped, and when he stood, Gilly could see that blood had been drawn from his side.

“Help me,” Gilly pleaded, in a barely there whisper. “You promised.”

Ghost attacked again, tearing at the monster’s leg, but it caused no damage. Indeed. The creature did not even pause. Those blue eyes stayed locked on Gilly.

 _I could run._ But when Gilly tried to move her feet, she found them frozen in place. In shock, she fell backwards. She clutched the dagger against her belly. The tears that pricked at her eyes froze on her lashes.

Ghost threw himself on the cold one’s back, claws scraping at impenetrable flesh. The creature threw him off and bent over Gilly. It’s eyes were so blue, it’s skin icy and taut like a body left in the snow. Gilly screamed as that icy hand closed around her arm. It burned like nothing she had ever felt. Not like that time she had grabbed a pot sitting in the coals. Not like that time she had spilled boiling water all over her lap.

She cried out, throwing her hands out to push it away. One hand burned where it touched the creature’s shoulder. The other held the dagger. She expected it to slide harmlessly across the inhuman flesh like Ghost’s claws. Instead, the dagger sank deep.

The creature roared, a sound like ice breaking and shattering. Gilly yanked her hand free, and crawled away. She watched in horror as the god turned fully to ice that cracked and splintered into a thousand shatters that rained down on her like knives. When it was over, it was silent. Even the crows had quieted. Gilly lay dully on the ground in shock.

It was Ghost’s growl that roused her. He was panting and shaking. He was fixated on the pile of icy shards that remained of the monster. In the middle, lay the dagger, still whole and perfect.

“It’s gone,” whispered Gilly. She struggled to sit up. “The god is dead. I killed it.” Gingerly, she stood and plucked the dagger from the ground. It was cold now. She wrapped it in a piece of cloth and buried it in her cloak. It was the most precious thing she owned now.

“Come on, Ghost.”

And even though her legs were numb and her steps unsteady, she ran. She ran as fast and far as she could manage, clumsily breaking through branches and brush that blocked her way. Behind her, she could hear Ghost.

They stopped when she tripped over a log. She went tumbling down, and caught herself on her hands and knees, fearful for the babe. It was wet where she lay, and she turned her face to the sky. It was raining. A chilling rain, but rain. It meant safety.

Ghost prowled their space in a circle, before curling up around her. His side was brown with drying blood, and Gilly stroked him apologetically. To her shock, he growled and snapped when she reached out.

Gilly gasped and jerked her arm back. The skin on her arm and hand was black and hard like it had been badly burned. She swallowed hard, and wrapped her cloak around the burns. Ghost sniffed her again.

“It’s okay, it’s me,” whispered Gilly. She reached out with her right hand, and rubbed his ears. He pressed his head into her hand. “We’re safe,” she said to the wolf, to herself, to the babe. “We’re safe.”

They slept much too late the next morning. The light was bright when they finally rose. Gilly shook out her clothes and bathed quickly in the stream that ran nearby. She felt as if the monster’s touch still crawled over her skin like spiders. She held her blackened skin under the current of the river, but strangely it was not painful or throbbing like every other burn she had ever had. It just seemed dead. She could not even feel her own touch.

Her burns still made Ghost nervous although he held still as she scrubbed the blood from his coat and cleaned his wounds.

It was at least midday by the time they started to walk again. The sky was grey and a light snow started to fall. Gilly cupped her hands and watched the snowflakes melt in the palm of her hands. It was safe. For now.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped: Gilly thinks about the time that Rowen had a miscarriage.
> 
> I found it super weird that Gilly never mentioned any of her (sisters? mothers? wives?) after she left the keep. Like these were the only people she knew for her entire life. If she did mention them and I missed it, let me know! 
> 
> Here are the names of all the wives, the first four are GRRM certified.  
> Gilly, Dyah, Ferny, Nella, Hali, Berga, Milly, Ana, Faeth, Clova, Bellie, Heather, Thystle, Mouse, Poesy, Miyah, Hyra, Geana, Rowen.


	7. Summer's Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you love this chapter as much as I loved writing it. Also if anyone has any questions about the North I have a bajillion answers as I just spent waaay too much time researching. I'm also adding a new feature, if you click on my profile, you can see my progress on the upcoming chapter. I'll be shooting for at least one, but maybe two chapters a week. Anyway, thanks for reading and enjoy!

\-------

Wynafryd Manderly stuck herself with a pin when the carriage hit a dip on the road. She cursed quietly, and sucked at the wound on her thumb, hoping Wylla didn’t hear her. Even so, her sister looked over.

“Stop trying to sew in the carriage,” said Wylla, prodding Wynafryd with her foot. “You’re going to wind up with a hand full of holes.” She shifted to a loud whisper. “And _Mother’s_ _mercy_ , Wynafryd. Think of the children before you use such such language.”

Wynafryd brushed at the dirt that Wylla’s boot had left on her skirt with a flick of her hand. “You must be hearing things, dear. I would never say something so unladylike.”

“What’s unladylike?” Madelyn asked, through a mouthful of shortbread.

“Nothing at all,” said Gywn, stealing the last pastry from Madelyn’s lap. “Wynafryd is the epitome of ladylike perfection.”

“That was _mine,_ Gywn!”

Gwyn stuffed it in her own mouth, and grinned at her little cousin. “Was it?”

Madelyn huffed. “Better not let _Ser Arthur_ see you with cake crumbs all over your dress.”

“What?” Gywn jerked her head down to look at her lap. Her face reddened when she saw nothing there.

“You looked!” shrieked Madelyn. Joanne and Sansa collapsed into giggles beside her.

“Don’t tease,” Wynafryd reprimanded. “That goes for both of you.”

“Besides,” added Wylla. “Ser Arthur probably likes cake.”

“Ser Arthur likes _Gwyn_ ,” said Lyanna, flipping the page of her book. “He’s going to propose any day now.”

“Maybe he’ll ask at the festival,” said Rosalie with a dreamy expression. “Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely, Gywn?”

Gywn smoothed her skirt. “Since Father is traveling with us, he’ll have the opportunity. And Mother and I just finished working on my new gown.”

“Why do you get a new gown for the festival?” Joanne’s lower lip jutted out. “Mother packed Lyanna’s old gown for me.”

“Gywn is the oldest,” Wynafryd reminded her pouting cousin. “It’s important that she look her best. Especially if she is to be married soon.”

“But I’ll never be the oldest,” sighed Joanne. “And Lyanna has lousy style.”

Lyanna glared at her little sister. “You don’t even have a style.”

“I would if I ever had a new gown!”

“Lyanna’s old gown is perfectly lovely, Joanne,” said Wynafryd. “The blue will bring out the gold in your hair, and make your eyes look brighter.”

Joanne looked intrigued, twirling a curl around her finger.

“Furthermore,” continued Wynafryd. “This is a celebration of Autumn Harvest. We’re meant to be tightening our belts, and thinking of the Winter to come.”

“You try telling Grandfather to tighten his belt,” said Wylla. “I doubt he’ll take it well.”

Wynafryd ignored her sister.

“Will Winter be very long?” asked Sansa. “I don’t remember it.”

Sansa’s small face was pinched with worry. Wynafryd tucked a strand of short, black hair behind the girl’s ear, and touched her cheek.

“Long summers mean long winters,” said Wynafryd. “At least that’s what the maesters say, and they know most things. The cold and the snow will come, and spring will always follow as it has for thousands of years.” She smiled. “And I will ensure that your mother has a bit of wool to make you new gloves.”

Wylla leaned forward. “Aye, and we’re northerners. A bit of cold can’t do us in.”

“Winter’s more than a bit of cold,” drawled Lyanna.

Wynafryd shot a look at Lyanna, but she held her tongue when Sansa smiled.

“I can be brave,” Sansa declared. “Just like Lady Sansa.”

“Yes,” said Wynafryd. She bit back the unease that trickled down her neck. “Lady Sansa is very brave indeed.”

With her dark hair and eyes, Sansa Wells looked the furthest thing from Lady Sansa Stark. Even so, the steward’s daughter was enamored with the story of her namesake. It was a magical tale, the beautiful, eldest daughter of the Starks going south to marry the crown prince. At least, it was supposed to be magical.  

“I heard they have quail eggs with every meal in King’s Landing,” said Madelyn. “And eat on on gold plates.”

Wynafryd said nothing, watching the little ones giggle. None of the older girls spoke. Whispers all along the coast and coming up the kingsroad said that the Lannisters had been keeping secrets. That Sansa Stark hadn’t been seen in court since the night the new King spilled his first blood before the throne. That she had been kidnapped by traveling actors or hidden in the tallest tower of Maegor’s Keep or smuggled across the sea to serve a Braavosi lord.

And little girls shouldn’t need to know such things.

And Wynafryd tried hard not to think about the fact that Sansa was only a year older than Madelyn. She was younger than Lyanna, younger than Wylla. When Wynafryd was Sansa Stark’s age, she’d still slept with her favorite doll.

_“Men don’t travel hundreds of miles for a harvest feast,” her grandfather had told her. Wyman Manderly’s jolly features, deepened into trenches when they were alone. “The South is cracking into pieces and Robb Stark is preparing us for war whether that boy likes to think we’ve realized it or not.”_

_And Wynafryd thought of the new glass gardens being raised within the walls of the castle, of the late summer sun shining through the planes of glass that the Myrish men lifted up to the light. They gleamed as slick and sharp as ice. But when she laid her fingertips against the glass it was warm like a living thing. The glass remembered the heat of the glassblower's breath and the fire of the forge._

_Winter’s garden. The glass fogged up when Wynafryd peered into the unfinished interior._

_It was like a window to another world, a thousand years ago, when the House Manderly grew amongst their southern gardens on the banks of the River Mander._

_“All we that are, we owe to the Starks,” Wylis Manderly had said when he watched the glass walls being raised. Her father was a steady man, staunch and sturdy. “A Stark’s promise is certain.”_

_But it was a certain promise that House Manderly was seeking of House Stark at the moment. A different promise than that of gardens._

_Wynafryd’s only memories of Robb Stark were of a three-year old clinging to his mother’s hand. They had made the long ride to Winterfell, Wynafryd all of six and Wylla still a babe. Her childish recollection was of a grey and solemn castle, and unknown to her, still tinged by the family’s loss during the rebellion._

_Her grandfather’s good nature was undimmed by the graveness of his hosts. His booming laugh had bounced off the walls of the Great Hall. He suggested that they dance, and so Wynafryd had dutifully taken Robb Stark’s sticky hand and kept him on his feet as she spun them in circles. Robb had laughed happily, and kissed her cheek at the end, but the Starks had been mum on a betrothal._

_“Too soon after that painful business of the Targaryens,” muttered her father._

_“A sign that Lady Catelyn will keep her children close,” sighed her mother._

But near a generation of a peace had passed, and children didn’t stay children. Still, the Starks had made no movement to wed their heir.

And a war was looming. Robb Stark stood at the helm of the North, his hands on the wheel. Inaction would no longer just be strange, it would be downright foolish.

_Foolish._ Wynafryd imagined saying that to Robb Stark. _It would be foolish not to marry me._ Wylla would laugh herself silly at the stiff proposition. _Such a cordial bride you will make._

The time was coming for the Starks to play their hand. They could do no better than to knit their fortune to the Manderlys. Certainly the Karstarks were an option with Lady Alys. But it was a matter of war now. And war meant gold and men. And the Karstarks couldn’t raise half of what Wyman Manderly could with one flick of his hand.

Perhaps it was children that was a matter of concern. Wynafryd’s hand drifted to her stomach. She had her mother’s shape, soft and round. Wide hips that would make childbirth easier. But she was one of two daughters. Her mother was one of four sisters. Alys Karstark had three older brothers, strong, healthy men with their own hosts of sons.

Wynafryd looked over to where Gywn was sitting, hugging her knees. She looked dreamy and content. Daydreaming of Ser Arthur, surely. She had confessed to kissing the knight behind the tapestry of Garth Greenhand that hung in the east hall. Said that he came to her window on the night of the full moon, and they walked hand in hand beneath the stars. Said she had decided on three children at least. Two boys and a girl, Arthur predicted.

Wynafryd returned to her work, knotting the thread on her embroidery. It pulled the final stitch taut, the end of a grey wolf’s tail. For practice.

She dearly hoped Robb Stark was a better dancer at seven and ten than he had been at three.

\-------

Winterfell was as grey and worn as she remembered. It looked as if an immense, stone giant had kneeled into the snow a thousand years ago. Nothing like the smooth, white walls of New Castle painted with dazzling murals and draped in intricate tapestries.

Her grandfather eased out of his creaking carriage, and immediately sank up to his ankles in mud. Roaring with laughter, he called to his sons to dismount quickly and pull him free. Wylis and Wendel did so with nary a complaint.

Several lords and ladies, and even some of the smallfolk tittered at the sight. It only widened Wyman Manderly’s exaggerated grin.   

It seemed that most of the other houses had come before them, judging from the throng of activity in the courtyard. Still their hosts came at once to greet them.

“My Lord Manderly.” Robb Stark was dressed in grey leather doublet, a silver direwolf shining at his breast. A thickly furred cloak laid across his shoulders. His auburn hair and beard glinted gold in the sun.

Her grandfather took Lord Robb’s proffered arm, and squeezed his forearm brusquely. He then bent and kissed the hand of Lady Stark. She was a lovely, statuesque women nearly at height with her son. They had the same hair, the same eyes.

“My sons, Wylis and Wendel,” Wyman called, his voicing booming through the courtyard. “My good daughter Lady Leona, my lovely granddaughters Wynafryd and Wylla.”

Wynafryd curtseyed deeply when her name was said. Beside her, Wylla bent so far the tip of her braid dragged in the mud.

“Lord Ronan Ramsgate and his wife Lady Dyanna, and their children, Lady Ella and Lord Wylos, Lord Ronard Woolfield and his wife Lady Orrina, and their three daughters, Lady Gywn, Lady Lyanna, and Lady Joanne, Lord Robin Flint and his son, Lord Robard and daughter, Lady Madelyn…”

Lord Robb went down the line, greeting the lords, and kissing the proffered hands of the ladies. Wynafryd only had a moment to examine him up close. His eyes were very blue, but polite, distant. His lips were rough where they brushed her hand.

Then he was moving away. Joanne squeaked audibly when he reached for her hand, although he graciously appeared not to notice. Wylla breathed deeply next to her, and Wynafryd could tell that she was stifling a snort of laughter.

Lady Stark’s eyes lingered longer on her than Robb’s had. She was a kind looking women, Wynafryd noted, but she did not smile. There was a deep weariness about her that permeated her veil of courtesy.

“Lady Catelyn, it is a delight to be in your company again,” said Leona. Her mother reached out to take Lady Stark’s hand, startling the other woman. “I do hope that you can spare the time to join our prayer circle. My ladies and I have been working through the Seven-Pointed Star, and you would be most welcome.”

Lady Stark hesitated, then placed her hand on top of Leona’s. “Thank you Lady Leona. It would be my pleasure. If I can spare the time, I will be sure to join you.”

Just then, Lady Dyanna’s babe hiccuped and started to cry.

Lady Stark shook herself slightly. “Forgive me, you must be tired after your journey.” She called for her steward who began directing stable boys to unload their luggage. Then she was gone, striding off to where Lord Robb stood speaking to the other lords.

Wynafryd didn’t realize she was staring after them, until Wylla took her arm and tugged her towards the castle. “Come on, Wynny. I want to see what our rooms look like.”

Their rooms were sparse and clean, a fresh breeze blowing through the open window. Wylla leaned over the windowsill, tipping forward far enough for Wynafryd to grab the back of her dress in alarm and yank her back in.

“I thought I might be able to see the Wall from here,” Wylla complained.

Wynafryd shook her head. “You’d need to ride a few more weeks in the carriage at the very least.”

She opened their trunks and began to lay out their dresses, smoothing the wrinkles with her hands. Her mother must have instructed the maids to sprinkle dried lavender between the folds. Instead of smelling musty after the long trip, everything was delicately perfumed. She gathered up the gowns, and breathed deeply.

“Wynafryd.” Wylla’s voice was funny. “What’s this?”

She looked up. Wylla had pulled open all the dresser drawers, and was examining the door of the wardrobe. It was an old piece of furniture, still sturdy, but worn from use. Wylla was tracing scratches in the wood. Wynafryd crouched down to see better.

A-R-Y-A

The letters were mismatched and ungainly, etched by the unsteady hand of a small child.

“Is this their room?” Wylla asked in a hushed voice.

Wynafryd looked at the room with new eyes. It was in the main corridor, near the Lord’s chambers, with a big, airy window that took in the sun in the morning and overlooked the courtyard. Two beds for two sisters.

Wylla pulled the other door of the wardrobe open. Scratched in the wood were two neat letters: S.S.

Wylla chewed her lip. “Where are their things?”

“Lady Stark probably moved them to her chambers,” Wynafryd said gently. “With so many guests, it would be quite impractical to let rooms stand empty.”

“I suppose.”

They stood still a moment longer, sobered by the discovery.

“Come on,” said Wynafryd. “Help me hang these gowns. They need to breath, and shake their wrinkles out.” She offered one to Wylla.

Silently, Wylla took the dress. Then she hung it up.

\-------

The night they arrived, Wynafryd was seated at the high table. Her grandfather was given the spot of honor next to Robb Stark. Lady Catelyn was seated on his other side with the two younger Stark boys. Bran and Rickon Stark were mischievous looking little things, but adorable with their red curls. Less adorable were the wolves laying at the boys’ feet. Rickon Stark pulled on his wolf’s ears acting for all the world as if it was a lap dog and not a wild beast.

“Don’t panic,” Wylla whispered in her ear. “But I think Robb Stark’s wolf is under our feet.”

Wynafryd peeked under the table. Two slanted yellow eyes stared back at her, glowing in the firelight. She swallowed. As she watched, Robb’s hand slipped under the table, offering the animal a piece of meat. The wolf licked it out of the palm of his hand.

She quickly looked up at Robb, but he was listening to her grandfather discuss implementing new tariffs at White Harbor with a solemn expression on his face. She had not seen the young lord look anything _but_ solemn since arriving. Even as shouts of laughter and singing began to fill the Great Hall, Lord Robb’s face remained long.

Wynafryd looked out over the bursting tables filled with all manner of lords and ladies. They were still awaiting the arrival of the Mormonts and the Umbers, gods only knew where they would put them. The Karstarks had arrived only hours ago. Old Lord Karstark looked a beast with his long beard and loose hair, furs piled high on his shoulders. His three sons followed, fierce-looking men, the white sunburst of Karstark emblazoned across their cloaks. And then there was Lady Alys. She was pale and delicate with long, dark braid falling across her shoulder.

“Alys Karstark has a peaked look about her,” Leona whispered into Wynafryd’s ear.

“Mother!” Wynafryd scolded her.

But she couldn’t help looking over to where the Karstarks were sitting. As she watched, Alys burst into laughter, shoving her brother who sat beside her. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes sparkling. Tomorrow night, the Karstarks would take their turn at the High Table. Alys would laugh at some joke, and Lord Robb would look over and surely be enamored.

Wynafryd began to feel a touch of nerves. Her grandfather had been quite explicit with the fact that this was their chance to secure an alliance with the Starks. He’d personally approved the gown she would wear on the first night of the festival, and conferred with her mother on the most flattering hairstyle to accompany it. It was only what was expected of her, but Wynafryd had never felt this expectation to such an extent.

She looked over at Robb Stark again. The sight of him made her lose her appetite. She put down her knife, and started drumming her fingernails against the table.

“What’s wrong?” whispered Wylla. “Do you feel sick?”  

Wynafryd shook her head. She was spared another one of Wylla’s questions, when the Stark’s wizened, old maester appeared and bent to whisper in Robb’s ear. He was clutching a raven’s scroll, and Wynafryd could just catch the word, “... south…”

Robb and Lady Stark stood up so quickly their chairs almost toppled. Then Lord Robb was making his excuses to her grandfather, and hurrying away with his mother. There was a pause, and then the next dish was being offered to little Lord Bran in place of Robb and the meal continued.

“What was that?” asked Wylla.

Wynafryd shook her head. “Perhaps it was news from Lord Stark.” She pushed her plate away and stood. “Mother, may I be excused? I’m feeling poorly.”

Leona looked alarmed. “Go straight to bed. We can’t have you getting sick. Everything must go absolutely _perfectly_ tomorrow.”

“Yes, mother.”

She waved away her sister’s offer to accompany her, and slipped from the busy hall. It was a relief to be away from the commotion, but she was not sure she preferred the eerie, empty halls. It was too quiet. Her footsteps echoed against the ancient stone.

If she was Lady of Winterfell, this would be her home. This is where she would marry, raise her children, grow old. Of course, she would visit White Harbor from time to time, bring the children for her father to bounce and coo over, but it would never be the same.

Suddenly, she stopped. This part of the castle didn’t look familiar. She hesitated, thinking of how to trace her steps back.

“Are you lost, my lady?”

Wynafryd jumped. There was a lord standing there in the torchlight, smiling at her. She ran her eyes over him, looking for a clue to his house, but there was nothing. He was dressed plainly in a black leather jerkin without a sigil.

His smile made her uneasy.

“Oh no, I’m fine, my lord…?”

“Lord Ramsay,” said the man, with a slight bow.

“Lord Ramsay,” Wynafryd repeated, flicking through the list of names in her head. It rung a dull bell, doubtless he was one of the many sons of a more minor house, perhaps a Slate or an Overton. Mindful of her courtesies, she offered her hand, and restrained a shudder when he kissed it.

“I’d be happy to escort you back to the Great Hall, my lady,” Lord Ramsay offered. “Or perhaps to your rooms.”

Wynafryd frowned at his second suggestion. What an ill-mannered thing to say to a girl of her standing. “No, thank you, my lord. I’m quite able to find the way myself, I shan’t need any assistance.”

“Wynafryd!”

To Wynafryd’s immense surprise, Lady Alys Karstark had come upon them, flushed and a touch out of breath. She latched onto Wynafryd’s arm.

“Silly dear,” Alys said, smiling up at Wynafryd as if they were the best of friends. “You left the Hall so quickly, I couldn’t catch you. It’s been ages since we’ve got to see each other. You must tell me everything. Come along.”

“Lady Alys,” Lord Ramsay called, drawing their attention back to him. “It’s lovely to see you again. Why, we haven't had the time to properly greet each other.”

Alys cast a brief glance in his direction. “A pleasure. Now come, Wynafryd. Come along.”

Alys started walking, and Wynafryd had no choice but to follow. She heard Lord Ramsay’s distant farewell, but Alys did not pause. Indeed, by the time she stopped, Wynafryd was almost running to keep up with her.

“Oh,” sighed Wynafryd, recognizing the hallway. Her room was only a few feet away.

Lady Alys let go of her arm. She looked nervous now, and a touch apologetic. “Are you alright?”

Wynafryd frowned. “I’m quite well, thank you.”

Alys shuffled her feet. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s only that I saw you leave the hall, and then the Bolton bastard slipping after you.”

Wynafryd’s mouth dropped in horror. _Ramsay._ Of course she knew the name, what a stupid, witless little girl she had acted. It had only been a year ago that Roose Bolton’s eldest died under mysterious circumstances leaving the Dreadfort heirless but for a bastard.

“I didn’t know,” she said hurriedly. “I hadn’t thought, and I was a bit lost.”

“Listen,” said Alys, dropping to a whisper and stepping closer. “Tell your sister and your cousins to give the Bolton’s a wide berth. Old Roose has never been a picnic, but there’s something about his bastard that stand’s my hair on end. I met him last time I was visiting Daryn at Hornwood. The bastard watched me the whole time, and told Daryn that I’d be a treat if we weren’t betrothed. Daryn punched him in the mouth, and the bastard just laughed through the blood. ”

Wynafryd shuddered in disgust and sympathy. “Thank you, thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.” She shook her head, then started. “Lady Alys, we haven’t even been properly introduced!”

Alys’ laughter pealed like bells. She squeezed Wynafryd’s hand lightly. “It’s lovely to meet you, Lady Wynafryd. I’d be so glad if we could be friends.”

“Of course we can can be friends,” said Wynafryd. And though she still felt a bit muddled, her head swirling over what Alys had told her, she latched onto a matter of other importance. “Did you say you were engaged to Daryn Hornwood?”

Alys covered her mouth, a sly smile peeking around her fingers. “You mustn’t say a word. It’s all been arranged, but we haven’t made the announcement yet.”

“That’s wonderful, Lady Alys. I’m so happy for you.” Lord Daryn Hornwood was a handsome boy, lean and tall with thick dark hair and an easy smile. An Hornwood itself was a fine keep, surrounded by forest and rolling hills. Her mother and father would be ecstatic to hear that Alys Karstark was betrothed to another fine lord, all of their fears about a Karstark-Stark marriage vanishing in the wind. Wynafryd could stop worrying as well. At least, that’s what was supposed to happen. Instead, Wynafryd felt the tiniest touch of disappointment. There was no wondering now. She would be Robb Stark’s best and only option.

“I’ve already started working on my maiden’s cloak, and my dress,” said Alys. “I do hope we can hold the ceremony before the start of Winter, I’d rather be settled in Hornwood before the cold comes.”

“Are you very excited to move to Hornwood?” Wynafryd asked.

“Oh yes,” said Alys. “Lord and Lady Hornwood have been so kind to me, and there’s really not much for me to do anymore now that my good sisters are running Karhold.” She paused. “Are you thinking about what it would be like to be the Lady of Winterfell?”

Wynafryd flushed, feeling found out. “I’d thought, perhaps, that _we_ would be contending for that title.”

“Oh, believe me,” said Alys. “Nothing would have pleased my father more than my marrying Robb Stark. But, alas, the Starks have been so reticent about marriage, that my father grew too impatient to wait. And the Hornwoods are a fine choice.”

“Why have the Starks waited so long?” wondered Wynafryd. “Robb should have been betrothed years ago, he needn’t have married until he was older, but betrothed at the very least.” _Sansa should have been betrothed as well. She couldn’t have been sent South if there had been an agreement in place._

Alys shrugged. “My father always said that Lord Stark was as fine a liege lord as could be asked for, but in truth he was never raised to be heir to Winterfell. He thinks that losing Lord Stark losing his father, brother, and sister in such quick succession made him want to keep his children close. Or perhaps that Lady Catelyn had her sights on a southern bride.” Alys took a drink from her flask, and then held it out. Feeling daring, Wynafryd drank deeply.

“Like the Princess Myrcella?”

Alys nearly choked on the ale. “The Others take us all, I’d nearly forgotten about that in the midst of all this. One day there was a raven telling us the news, and now it seems that Queen Cersei has reconsidered the marriage. Not to mention it’s possible the girl isn’t even a trueborn Baratheon, must less a princess. If they’d gone through with the wedding, I’m sure the vows would have been drowned by the muttering of the Northern lords.”

“It’s terrible, isn’t it though?” said Wynafryd. “Lord Stark and Lady Arya were supposed to be returning in time for the festival, but there’s been absolutely no word of them. Not a letter, not a rider, not a sighting on the kingsroad. Not to mention the rumors concerning Lady Sansa. My grandfather is sure that war is coming, but against whom? Are we to support the Crown? The elder son? Lord Stannis has the right but not the numbers. Lord Renly hasn’t the right, but he’s acquired the full might of the Reach. It seems there’s a loss in any choice we make.”

“If Lord Stark was here, then my father would stand behind any decision he made, as would every other northern house,” murmured Alys. “But Robb Stark is young and green. He’ll have a fight on his hands if he thinks to lead the North without dispute. The Greatjon will challenge his youth for sure, as will Maege Mormont, and my own father even. They’ll want him to prove himself, and in the same breath claim he can’t possibly be allowed to lead before the fact.”  

“He mustn’t bend nor break,” said Wynafryd. “I don’t envy him the task.”

Alys glanced at her. “He’ll need a good wife beside him.”

Wynafryd was beginning to feel warm, and a bit sleepy. “I’ve never been a wife before,” she confessed. “I might not be very good at it.”

Alys giggled. “I’m quite sure you’ll make a fine wife. Robb Stark would be lucky to marry you.”

Wynafryd sat down in the corridor with a thump. “I suspect my grandfather will tell him the same thing on the morrow when he insists we dance.” She yawned. “I’m so tired all of the sudden.”

Alys took her arm, and pulled her up. “Where’s your room?”

Wynafryd pointed. “It’s not my room,” she explained. “It’s Lady Sansa and Lady Arya’s room. Isn’t that terribly sad? All of their things are gone. It’s like they’ve vanished.” Her eyes welled, and she wiped at her tears. “They’re only children after all.”

“My nurse used to say that in Summer all men are children,” said Alys. “But when Winter comes, we must grow up.”

“It’s not Winter yet,” said Wynafryd. Apparently drink made her stubborn. Wouldn’t Wylla be amused by that.

“No,” said Alys, with a tiny smile.  “Not yet. We have a little while longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of two Winterfell chapters in a row!


	8. Winter's Kingdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so hard to write, I've been reworking it for like the last two weeks. So finally, I decided I just had to let it go and post it. Recognizable dialogue from "The Ghost of Harrenhal" and "A Clash of Kings." Enjoy!

There were three letters sitting on the desk in Father’s solar. Robb would have burned them all in an instance for one word from his father, from Sansa, from Arya.

_TO THE SITTING LORD OF WINTERFELL…_

**_To the loyal warden of the North…_ **

_To young Lord Robb Stark…_

_YOU ARE SUMMONED ON PAIN OF TREASON TO PLEDGE FEALTY TO YOUR LIEGE LORD AND KING…_ **_I call upon the son of Eddard Stark to cast away the usurpers and recognize the right of the one true king…_ ** _I ride with the might of the South and the love of the people. The North will be richly rewarded… YOUR LOVELY SISTER… YOUR FATHER… YOUR HOUSE WILL REAP THE CONSEQUENCES OF YOUR ACTIONS…_ **_Winter is no time for hesitation, as House Stark ought to know well…_ ** _we’d make better friends than enemies, my lord… TRAITORS TO THE CROWN WILL BE DEALT WITH SWIFTLY AND WITHOUT MERCY…_ **_those loyal will be rewarded justly… choose wisely, my lord, I will not offer a second time…_ ** _when I take the Iron Throne from the false king, the North will ever have my ear and my sympathies…_

_\- HIS GRACE, JOFFREY OF HOUSE BARATHEON, THE FIRST OF HIS NAME, KING OF THE ANDALS, THE RHOYNAR, AND THE FIRST MEN, LORD OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS, AND PROTECTOR OF THE REALM._

**_\- Stannis Baratheon, First of his Name, Trueborn King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm._ **

_\- Lord Renly the Valiant of House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the People and the Realm._

Robb slouched down in his father’s oak chair, chewing on his ragged thumbnail. Greywind whined beneath the table, and Robb reached down to pet his ears. His wolf made a sound like a sigh as Robb dragged his fingers through his tangled fur. The fire was crackling pleasantly in the grate behind him, making the room warm and hazy. Robb let his head fall back, let his eyes close. The sound of men laughing in the yard below fell away, everything peaceful and quiet.

The knock at the door snapped him to attention so hard that a muscle in his neck seized.

“Enter,” he said, all Robb the Lord. He straightened his spine in anticipation of seeing Lord Harmund Flint’s purple face. The man had taken one look at Theon jesting with Jory in the courtyard and demanded to know why the _ironborn scum_ was not rotting in Winterfell’s dungeons.

But it was only his mother, and Robb relaxed a fraction.

“The Mormonts have arrived.”

Robb leapt out of his chair, already pulling his cloak on, and heading to the door. “Why wasn’t I sent for at one? Damn that new page, he’s useless. Is Lady Mormont furious that I was not there to greet her?”

“Hush, darling, sit,” said his mother. “Everything is well. Lady Mormont was tired and irritable after her long journey. I offered to fetch you at once, but she insisted it wasn’t necessary. I personally escorted her and her daughters to their prepared rooms. They’re resting now.”

Robb sat back down slowly, half-sure that he was forgetting something else of magnanimous importance. “Lady Mormont has… four daughters? No, five.” He counted them off on his hand. “Lady Dacey’s the heir, Alysanne, Lyra, Jorelle, and Lyanna.” He muttered the names to himself again, he needed to be able to keep them straight.

“Lady Mormont is stubborn and taciturn,” said Catelyn. “She will challenge you when you speak. The Mormonts are enduringly loyal to our house, but Maege _will_ test your composure. Don’t let her fluster you.”

“I’m mindful of that,” Robb grunted. “I’ve been placating the heads of houses for days, do you think I cannot do the same for Lady Mormont?”

He regretted the sharp edge to his words when he spoke them, but Robb was so _tired_ of it all.

“I did not say that,” said his mother. She gave him a pointed look. “Only that you should prepare yourself for her barbs.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Robb snapped. “I’m not… I wasn't ready for this. I’m _trying.”_

“None of us were ready for this,” his mother reminded him. Her words made Robb feel small and squirmy, like a child trying to wrestle his way out of lessons. _A lord cannot be childish._

“I’m not Father.” Robb confessed as if it was a terrible secret. There was something tight and hard cracking and splintering in his chest. The feeling of tears pricking behind his eyes, jolted him to his feet in shock. He ran both hands through his hair roughly, to shake him to his senses.

Gods above, if something like this happened when he was sitting across the table from Greatjon Umber or Roose Bolton. And even though no lord was here to see him on the verge of tears, he did not need their eyes to feel humiliated.

“Robb.” His mother reached for him, but he pushed her away.

“No,” he said. “Please, I can’t.” _You’ll make me feel a child._

 _You are a child, acting a child,_ whispered his shame. _Look at your mother._

Robb swallowed hard and looked. There were dark circles beneath his mother’s eyes. His lips parted in despair. It was his duty to take care of his mother, he had _promised_ Father. And yet, here they both were, with his mother shouldering both her grief and Robb’s incompetence.

His hand had been clenched in a fist, and he opened his fingers slowly.

“The gods didn’t send me back,” he said softly.

His mother breathed like she was breaking the surface of the water.

Robb sat heavily in his chair, and pressed his clasped hands against his trembling mouth. _“They knew what I was,”_ he said. _“They thought me too lost.”_

“You speak of things you know nothing of.” Catelyn’s voice was strung tight as a bow. “We cannot presume to know the intentions of the gods.”

“But it’s true,” whispered Robb. “Do you know what I keep thinking? _Tomorrow, Father will ride through the gates. Tomorrow, I won’t have to be Lord of Winterfell anymore. Tomorrow, someone else will choose. Tomorrow, I can rest.”_ He looked down.

His mother reached for him, and then her hand fell away. She took the seat across from him, the heavy desk between them.

“A man can only handle so much, Robb,” she said.

“And I have handled so little,” said Robb bitterly. “I’ve been standing on the edge, refusing to jump, in the hopes that Father could take the leap for me. Father, Sansa, Arya. They all knew the risk of leaving. And they did so anyway. They knew the risk, and said, _this is worth it._ ”

Catelyn’s throat worked. “What is it you mean to say?”

“Father is not coming home tomorrow,” said Robb. “I will pray to the gods every morning and night that he and Arya find their way home to us. I will pray that Sansa has the strength to stand whatever trials she faces. But I cannot keep waiting. I meant it, when I told you that we would wait for them to return before taking action, but I can no longer hold to that.”

His mother looked at him sharply. “Tell me what it is you mean to do.”

Robb met her eyes. “When I sit council with the Northern Lords, I will listen to their counsel, and offer some of my own. I do not intend for the North to become embroiled in a Southron war with Winter so close. The North will not stand behind a southron king. I will not be swayed by threats or promises.”

“And when the Lannisters ask that you kneel in exchange for your father and sisters?” HIs mother’s eyes were hard and bright, her lips pressed so tightly together that they turned white. And Robb felt suddenly like there was a chain wrapped around his neck, and Jaime Lannister and his careless smile held tight to the other end.

“I will not endanger the lives of my bannermen for two girls.” Robb made the words hard. Softness would break him. “And Father knows the risk that a soldier takes when he goes to battle. He would understand my decision. The safety of you, Bran, Rickon, and of the North must be my priority now. When Father returns, and I have faith that he will, it will be through his own means."

He searched for disappointment in her eyes, but she did not meet his gaze. Catelyn’s face was smooth and impassive.

Robb allowed himself one slip. “Do you understand, Mother?” _Can you understand me?_

She was silent for a moment. “When your brothers ask you of this, you will be gentle with them.”

“I will.” _A promise. A lord kept his promises._

“When you speak with the Northern Lords, you will remind them who you are,” said Catelyn. Robb had never heard his mother sound so broken and whole all at once. “You are the Lord of the North, _their_ lord and liege. Never let them forget who you are. You are the trueborn and eldest son of House Stark, _Eddard Stark’s son._ You are descended from the Kings of Winter, from Bran the Builder, from Brandon the Breaker, from the Laughing Wolf. You will remind them that your ancestors ruled the North for near ten-thousand years before the Targaryens stumbled skywards from the burning ruins of Valyria.”

“I will.”

_And Robb took the fragility that lived inside his chest and closed it off. Took all his fear and sorrow and flung it away, so it fell, like a boy falling from a tower. And he buried that boy in the snow._

He came around to his mother, and kissed her hair. _I’m sorry,_ his kiss whispered. She laid her hand gently against where his hands cupped her head. They didn’t speak. The fire was crackling in the grate, and the sound of men laughing drifted in through the window.

\-------

The blade scraped against Robb’s throat, pinkening the skin there. Tommy tilted his chin back, cleaning up the stubble on his neck.

“Do you want it shorter, m’lord?”

Robb passed a hand over his face, and peered in the looking glass. A beard made him look older, made him feel more self-assured. “No, leave it longer, Tommy.”

“Women like a bit of scruff on a man.” Theon was waiting his turn, arms crossed over his chest. He had hardly a few scraggly hairs on his jaw. “Winter Town is full to bursting with whores of every shape and size. When you’ve finished with your lordly duties, you can nip down with me.”

“I’ve already told you no,” said Robb. “I’m needed here to deal with the guests. Go yourself if you wish.”

“You’d rather spend the evening pandering to fat, old men and their prudish daughters?” jeered Theon. “I can’t be sure to spare you a thought when I’m abed with much lovelier company.”

“As I intend to marry one of their daughters, I doubt they would look kindly on me taking leave early to partake in the Winter Town festivities.”

Theon snorted. “Am I mistaken? Is it your virtue then that the Lords have demanded on the bargaining table? I’m sure your mother will want to get straight on your lovely, white dress for the wedding.”

Robb ignored the bait. That was the lordly thing to do. “It would be rude to abandon the feast, and not what the Lord of Winterfell should be doing. And besides, I mean to inquire after a betrothal this very night.”  

Theon leaned back. “Well then, _Lord Stark._ Which girl has your Lady Mother instructed you to pick?”

Robb gave him a sharp look. _“I_ have decided to extend an offer to the Manderlys. They have been hinting, more than hinting, that they would be pleased with an arrangement.”

 _“The Manderly girl?”_ Theon’s derision was grating. “Bit plain that one. And I’ve seen the mother, you can’t be looking forward to much in the future.”  

 _“Theon.”_ Robb made his voice as thin and sharp as the blade at his neck. “Tommy, leave us for a moment.”

Robb waited until the barber had hurried out before speaking. “The Manderlys are my guests and my vassals - ”

“ - you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed, _my lord.”_

“ - you will show them all the due respect that this fact entails. That very much includes their daughters. I mean this, Theon.”

Theon’s face descended into ugliness. “Is that an order you’re giving me, Lord Stark?”

Something that had grown taunt between them snapped. Robb’s face heated as he tried to suppress his frustration.

“We’re not _children,_ anymore, Theon, gods. And as your liege lord, yes that is an order. It is well within my right to demand that you respect my bannermen, and for you to obey that order.”

 _“Children?”_ Theon sneered. “When were we children together? It certainly wasn’t when your bloody father slew my brothers and dragged me prisoner into the wolves’ den.”

There was a muscle ticking in Theon’s jaw, and the poison dripping from his words rendered Robb speechless. _We treated you like one of our own._

_What did you do to us?_

“I have _always_ considered you a brother.”

Theon laughed. “Tell me this then, _brother._ When we sit down to feast tonight will I be seated at your side? Perhaps you will lead the hall in a toast to my good health. After which you can arrange for me to marry an upstanding Northern lady, and offer me a keep of my own.”

Robb knew the answer, but he did not speak it.

“Or perhaps that doesn’t suit you. Perhaps my brothers are both dead,” said Theon. “And now that you wear your father’s mantle, that makes you nothing but my warden.”

“Would you have rather been treated you like a prisoner?” snapped Robb. “Someone less honorable than my bloody father might have kept you in the dungeon, or sent you to rot on the Wall. We’ve been nothing but kind to you.”

Theon’s lip curled up. “You think because it was gilded, it made it less of a prison?”

Robb could feel the anger bubbling up in him, threatening to overflow.

_What did you do? What did you do?_

Theon was smiling again, a hard and awful smile. _He wants me angry,_ Robb realized. _He wants me furious. He wants to me to hate him._

“Dammit, Theon,” Robb said hoarsely. “Why must everything be so difficult?”

“I’m sure it’s very hard for you to be above the rest of us, my lord.” Theon threw his chair back so it clattered against the stone. “It will get easier, I sure.”

“Stop.”

Theon paused in the doorway, rigid with unwillingness.

Robb took a deep breath. “The Mormont and the Flint men are thirsting for your blood. Stay out of trouble.”

“Let them come,” said Theon. “They’ll regret it.” He stormed away, the golden thread in his sigil winking in the afternoon sun.

\-------

“It’s itchy!” Rickon pulled at his new wool surcoat , trying to pull it back over his head.

“Leave it,” Bran told him. “We all have to look nice for the feast.” He looked to Robb, his little face expectant.

“Very good, Bran.” Robb tousled his curls, and went to tug Rickon’s shirt back down.

“I want Father to come to the feast,” said Rickon.

Robb’s hands stilled.

“And Arya and Sansa and Jon.”

“Mother will be at the feast,” said Robb. “Bran and I will be there. Maester Luwin will be there, Nan, and Hodor, and Jory, and Ser Rodrik, and all of our guests. Everyone’s come to celebrate with us.”

Rickon’s face screwed up. “I don’t _want_ to celebrate.”

“Listen,” said Robb. “You too, Bran. The best thing we can do is be very brave, even if we feel scared. Everyone else is being very brave for us, so we must be brave for them.”

“If I’m brave, everyone will come back?” asked Rickon.

 _Yes,_ Robb wanted to tell Rickon. But instead, he said, “we can pray.”

When their mother swept in, fussing over Bran and Rickon’s hair, Robb pinned a silver direwolf against his chest, above his heart, and offered her his arm. She took it, and pressed her hand against his.

The long wooden tables in the Great Hall had been rearranged to form a long rectangle, with the high table forming the head. The hall was full to bursting with the lords and ladies of the North. Robb could hear Greatjon Umber leading the room in a raucous rendition of _Iron Lances._

When Robb stepped through the wide oak-and-iron doors with his mother on his arm, the roar of the people turned to cheers.

 _“Stark! Stark!”_ they called. “Winterfell! _Winterfell!”_ The weight of all those eyes made Robb’s head buzz. But he raised his hand to them, and took the length of the hall step by step.

He caught sight of Wynafryd Manderly sitting between her sister and mother. Her eyes were watching him as well, and he looked away in embarrassment when she caught him looking.

 _Are you a flustered maid?_ The voice was Theon’s, and it was enough to force Robb to look at Wynafryd again. This time, he did not look away. After a moment, she looked down at her plate smiling.

Her hair looked quite pretty the way it was tied up, dotted with pearl pins. It shone in the firelight. Robb made a note to tell her so. That’s something that Sansa would tell him to do.

Robb stepped up on the dais. Father’s silver goblet was waiting at his place. He picked it up, feeling the imprint of a wolf press into his palm. It was filled with sweet summerwine, and Robb raised it high.

He waited for the crowd to settle. Father never shouted for the attention of a crowd, he always waited. The hall quieted before him.

“My lords, my ladies.” In the sudden hush, Robb’s voice carried the length of the room. They were all listening from Maege Mormont to Roose Bolton to Rickard Karstark. ““I bid you welcome in the name of House Stark.” He paused as several men pounded their fists on the tables. “We find ourselves at the end of another golden Summer. Winter is on our heels, but Autumn is not a time for sorrow. It is a time for celebration. A celebration of our resilience and fortitude. Of the strength and life that resides in the roots of the tree heavy with snow. _Winter is Coming._ These are the words of my father’s house, and of his father’s and his fathers’ before him. These are the words that the First Men spit into the wind. These are the words that the Kings of Winter emblazoned across their hearts. For a thousand years Winter has swept across this land, _our_ land. And we have rose to meet it every time. The North does not cower, and we do not _kneel_ . Our bones are the roots of the forest, our blood sings the promise of Spring. _The North Remembers._ ”

Robb stopped to breath. There was a weight in the air, a gravity in the air. His words had spoken it into being.

“So we come together to celebrate our strength. We thank the gods, both old and new, for the bountiful harvest that sits before us now. May there be a hundred more. May our joys grow like weeds. May our sorrows wither to dust. May our sons and daughters rise for another thousand years. To the North!”   

All those voices became one, and Robb could feel the swell of it beneath his ribs, lifting him up. He looked to the Manderlys. They were all on their feet, shouting their vows into the smoky air. And though her sister beside her was jumping and screaming, Wynafryd Manderly was not. When Robb looked for her, she raised her glass to him and he saw her mouth form the words, _To the North._

Robb tossed back his summerwine. It was sweetened with honey and fragrant with cinnamon and cloves. It ran like fire down his throat, making him feel hot to his toes.

The musicians that Wyman Manderly had brought from White Harbor struck up a tune, and the servants poured into the hall with heaping platters of food. Course after course appeared, and they were all offered first to Robb. When he had tasted and waved it away, they continued down the line.

Robb sent some of the choicest platters to the other heads of houses. When Bran whispered in his ear, he sent sweets down to Old Nan who was sitting beside Hodor. He sent several joints of roasted aurochs in leeks and half a honey-baked ham to the Manderlys. Then he sent a dish of goose-in-berries specifically to Wynafryd.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as one of the serving girls placed the dish before Wynafryd. She looked surprised, then smiled. Her younger sister beside her laughed, and tried to spear a piece of goose. Wynafryd battered her away, and stole the goose back.

Robb smiled.

Later after all the sweets had been served and washed down with galleons of summerwine, the food was cleared and the tables shoved back against the walls to make room for dancing. The music was wilder, the drummers joining in. Old Hother Umber brought forth a huge, curved warhorn banded in silver. When the singers crescendoed, he blew a blast that set all the dogs to barking.

Robb wiped his hands on his breeches, and stood. He needed to find Wynafryd Manderly and ask her to dance. Perhaps after, he could speak to Wyman Manderly before the man passed out in his jug of ale.

But it was hard to see through the crowd. His mother disappeared to take Bran and Robb to bed, and Robb was alone. He wished that Theon was here, or Jon. And then he remembered that both of them were gone.

“My lord.” A girl appeared before him, and curtseyed low.

“Ah, hello.” Her hair was dark, and she was wearing a red dress with a silver chain. “Lady… Umber?

She giggled. “Lady Serena Umber, my lord.”

“Lady Serena,” he repeated. “Would you like to dance?”

She beamed, and offered her hand. Robb had never thought of the Umbers as being very good at dancing, but she was light on her feet. She giggled when he spun her, and so he did it again and again.

He danced with Jonelle Cerwyn and Lyra Mormont and Eddara Tallhart and Bethany Moss. And then he danced with little Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole because he knew Sansa loved them, and they missed his sister too.

Finally, he caught sight of Wynafryd dancing arm in arm with Alys Karstark. Wynafryd was laughing, her green dress fanning out as she twirled. They looked to be having such fun, that Robb was loath to interrupt. But Alys Karstark caught him looking, and grinned at him. She whispered in Wynafryd’s ear, and pointed at Robb.

 _Had they been talking about him?_ Robb felt that was a terribly unfair thing for girls to do.

He strode over as Alys Karstark skipped away, and Wynafryd turned to face him.

“Lady Wynafryd.” Robb cleared his throat. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

Up close, he could see that she had dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. Her hand was warm when she took his.

“I’d love to dance, Lord Stark.”

He put a hand on her waist, and focused on the pattern of his steps. She was wearing blue satin slippers trimmed with lace.

“Are you enjoying the festival, my lord?”

Robb looked up. Her face was very close to his. She was smiling, her head tilted in curiosity.

“Of course,” he said. “It is an honor for Winterfell to host the harvest festival.” He was using his _Lord Stark_ voice as Bran referred to it. He was glad his baby brothers weren’t watching him.

Wynafryd hummed. “I remember that last harvest at Winterfell. Do you? We danced together then too.”

Robb frowned. “Did we, my lady?” The last festival would have been at least ten years ago, maybe more.”

“I think you were three,” said Wynafryd. “You weren’t quite the dancer you are now.”

Robb coughed, and stood up a straighter. But Wynafryd didn’t look embarrassed. Instead she was still smiling at him.

“Did you like the goose?”

“Oh yes, it was wonderful, thank you,” said Wynafryd. “Although, I think my sister Wylla took most of it when I wasn’t looking.”

Robb smiled. “Does she do that often?”

“Yes,” sighed Wynafryd. “I love Wylla dearly, but sisters can be quite irksome.”

“My sisters would agree with you,” Robb said softly.

He saw Wynafryd part her lips as if to speak, but then she looked down. Robb suddenly wished that Sansa and Arya were here for Wynafryd to meet. That he could show off his brave and clever sisters. 

“I’ll request that the kitchens make goose again before you leave,” Robb offered. “Though I suspect we’re going to be eating seafood for many days, your grandfather was quite generous with his offerings.”

Wynafryd laughed. “Not so generous, my lord. You should know that he plans to eat a great deal of it himself. But, thank you. We should be staying at least the rest of the week.”

“Have you seen the castle yet?” asked Robb. “If you like, I could show you around.”

“I haven’t,” said Wynafryd. “But I’d love to see your glass gardens. They’re raising the walls on ours in New Castle. It’s terribly exciting.”

“I’ll show you the gardens and the godswood,” promised Robb.

“There are no ghosts in your godswood, are there?”

“Ghosts?”

“Yes,” said Wynafryd. “The godswood in the Wolf’s Den is supposed to be haunted. No one ever goes there anymore except the prisoners.”

“No,” said Robb. “No ghosts. But it’s a very old place, as ancient as the castle walls. It’s peaceful. When I pray there, it reminds me of all the Starks that came before me.”

“Isn’t it remarkable?” asked Wynafryd. “All of those lives, all of that history. It all had to be possible for us to stand here tonight.”

It was true. Robb could have been smelling the smoke and blood of a battlefield right now instead of the flowers in her hair. If the gods were good, his father was still breathing, _if the gods were good._

“Do you think it was all meant to be? Or do the gods just play with us?”

Robb regretted interrupting their light conversation with the question, but Wynafryd looked thoughtful. “ _The Seven Pointed Star_ tells us that our lives are like candle flames. Bright to our eyes, but so easily blown out by the gods’ errant winds. But fickleness is a very hard thing to put faith in, Lord Stark. When my grandmother died, my septa told me it was just the will of the gods. I didn’t understand that. How could they take her when I loved her so much, more than anything?”

“Loving someone should be enough,” said Robb. “But it isn’t.”

“No,” said Wynafryd. “I think we call the gods' will fate when we like the outcome, and call it aimless when we do not. Which is the right, I cannot say. None of us can.”

“Does any of it really matter then?”

“Of course it matters,” said Wynafryd. “We’re here aren’t we? My grandmother burned bright as any star, and she leaves a legacy of that brightness in me and my sister. Any brightness in the world makes it worth it.”

The song ended, and Wynafryd’s skirt settled around her ankles.

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Stark.”

Robb bowed slightly, and kissed her hand. She turned to leave, when he suddenly remembered. 

“Wait!”

Wynafryd came back at once.

“I wanted to tell you, your hair looks very pretty like that,” Robb said.

Wynafryd bit her lip, and smiled. She touched the waves of her hair pinned back with pearl clips. “It’s very kind of you to say, Lord Stark. They were my grandmother’s pearls.”

“They’re lovely,” Robb said.

She smiled, her cheeks pink. And he watched her flutter away into the crowd.

\-------

Robb surveyed his war council across the long wooden table. He was flanked on either side by his mother, and Ser Rodrik. Grey Wind watched them from a rug in front of the fire. Maege Mormont had brought her daughter Dacey. They sat next to the Greatjon and the Smalljon. Across the table, Rickard Karstark had brought his three sons. Lord Cerwyn sat with Cley beside the Tallharts. The Manderlys had taken the other end of the table with Lord Woolfield and Lord Ramsgate. The two houses of Flint sat opposite each other. Roose Bolton was seated stiffly next to Lord Hornwood and his son.

“My lords, my ladies,” said Robb. “I thank you for joining me. You are gathered here to discuss the future of the North.” He watched Maege Mormont out of the corner of his eye. Earlier, she had gruffly informed him that he was young enough to be her grandson. “In my hands, I hold three letters from the South. Three letters, three kings. We rest in perilous times, and the impetus for our decision is now.”

“There’s no word of Lord Eddard?” asked Medger Cerwyn.

“Not since my sister wrote after the King’s death,” replied Robb. “My father and younger sister were supposed to be escorted to Winterfell by a retinue of the Crown. This is no longer a fact. Riverrun has written to say that King Joffrey demands that my father be taken in as a fugitive of the Crown should he be recovered.”

There was a cry of outrage around the table.

“By what crimes is Eddard Stark named a fugitive?” bellowed Wyman Manderly.

“For traitorous intents and designs against the Crown.” Robb didn’t wait for the dissent to swell before continuing. “Joffrey has sent several ravens demanding that the North swear fealty to his rule or suffer the consequences.”

“The North will not be cowed by such deceitful threats,” spit Rickard Karstark.

“Lord Stark was a close friend of King Robert and a loyal Hand,” said Roose Bolton. “What reason would the boy have to break ties with the North with his uncles on his heels?”

Robb steepled his fingers together. “Let me speak candidly, in the knowledge that what I say now will stay within these walls.”

He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of each of his vassals. Roose Bolton’s were pale like the underbelly of a worm, but still Robb stared back at him.

“My lord father went south because his King requested it, yes, but also to uncover the extent of the Lannister’s hold over King Robert,” said Robb. “After the death of Jon Arryn, he became concerned that the Lannisters had a hand in his death.”

There was uneasy muttering.

“Pray tell, how did Lord Eddard come by this information?” asked Robett Glover.

Robb glanced at his mother, and she gave him a short, sharp nod.

“My mother received a coded letter sent by messenger from her sister, Jon Arryn’s widow, Lady Lysa Arryn of the Vale. In the letter, she indicated she had cause to blame the Lannisters for the sudden death of her husband, and that the same fate would soon befall King Robert. She also revealed that all three of the royal children were not Robert’s trueborn children as the Queen passed them off, but bastards born of incestuous relations. My father went south to investigate the substance of these claims, and to protect the king.”

“On naught but the word of a grieving widow?” murmured Roose Bolton

“My sister has always had a weak-willed and craven nature,” snapped Catelyn. “For her to take such a risk, to _accuse_ the Lannisters of such a thing was of enormous risk to her and her son. She would never have made such a claim without the utmost conviction.”

“This claim has been corroborated by the Baratheon brothers,” said Robb. “And while I do not take the word of contending kings at face-value, there is no doubt that Joffrey’s claim is now heavily contested and doubted by the seven kingdoms. I believe that my father discovered sensitive information during his time as Hand that made him a danger to Joffrey’s reign.”

“And there is no word of your sisters?” asked Dacey Mormont.

“No,” said Robb shortly. “I imagine that the Lannisters intended to keep the betrothal to my sister Sansa in order to subdue us. But as far as I know, my sister is not in King’s Landing. Where she has gone, I do not know. Arya will be with my father, wherever that is.”

“This is ill business,” muttered Halys Hornwood.

“Ill business?” snarled the Greatjon. “It is an insult to House Stark, and to the whole of the North!”

Robb threw Joffrey’s letter on the table. “The Lannisters _demand_ that we swear fealty and raise an army to defend King Joffrey’s crown. They claim us traitors if we refuse.”

“Our men will not die for the Lannisters.” Maege Mormont slammed her fist on the table. “Not with Winter’s bloody teeth closing around our throats.”

“Stannis and Renly call for our arms.” Robb raised his voice over the discord. “Joffrey threatens, Stannis orders, and Renly cajoles, but they all call, my lords. And I ask: what does the North answer?”

“Renly?” repeated Wyman Manderly. “He is bold to claim the right. Even the Queen’s children are bastards, Stannis still lives, and he is the elder. And yet, what army does Stannis have to speak of?” He turned to Robb. “Will Lady Arryn put the weight of the Vale behind Stannis?”

Robb shook his head. “Lady Arryn has declared the Vale’s intent of neutrality. I have tried to reach out to her, but ravens to the Eyrie come back unanswered.”

“Then Stannis has no army,” said Roose Bolton. “He can raise perhaps two thousand, three thousand men from the outlying islands of Dragonstone. He will go against the Lannisters only to die. Our men will die for his right.”

“To deny the right would be treason,” muttered Leobald Tallhart. “And to choose wrongly would be treason as well.”

“When we fall for Stannis against the Lannisters and Renly’s forces, the victor will call us traitors just the same,” grunted Robett Glover.

“If we wait for the Kings to play their games, we may offer our fealty to the one who rises,” offered Lord Hornwood.

“Craven!” the Greatjon thundered, and Lord Hornwood’s rebuttal was drowned out by a screech of angry voices echoing the Umbers.  

“Begging for a truce will only make us look weak,” declared Maege Mormont.

“And what King Stannis would do to those who crossed him,” said Wyman Manderly shaking his head. “I cannot speak for Joffrey and Renly, but the new king will reap us what we have sown.”

“I fought for House Stark neigh twenty years ago now on the banks of the Trident,” growled Rickard Karstark. “I fought for the two hundred northmen lives lost to the Targaryens’ madness, and the murder of my liege lords. For the insult the Targaryens paid us, I paid them one in turn. Tell me, what should spurn my heels now? The squabbles of southron kings?”

“If the Lannisters capture Lord Eddard and his daughters before the Riverlanders, then they will bait us fealty for his life,” intoned Roose Bolton. He flicked his cold eyes to Robb. “And what shall be the North’s response?”

“The Lannisters think us weak,” said Robb in a hard voice. “They think us stupid and foolhardy enough to fall for their incompetent threats. My father survived the lion’s pit, and escaped the Crown’s guards while still injured from his attempt to protect the King. If we bow before King Joffrey then we justify the Lannister’s crimes. And so we will not bow. If they should come for us, this is the answer I shall give them.” He unsheathed his long sword and laid it on the table before him. Behind him, Grey Wind lifted his head and growled harshly.

_But it will stay sheathed as long as I am able to stay the tide._

There were shouts of approval, and the sound of fists pounding on wood.

 _“They called you the young wolf,”_ Arya’s voice whispered. _Men said you into battle on the back of a giant direwolf, they said you could turn into a wolf, they said you couldn’t be killed. But all men must die.”_

Robb did not know the smell of a fresh battlefield. Of soldiers’ screams. He’d never swung his sword and ended a man’s life. Sometimes he dreamed of it, but the images were blurry and indistinct. He had no wish to make those dreams more vivid, but he knew that the thought of such things could set men’s hearts aflame.

“If not Joffrey, than which brother do you intend to hold us to, my lord?” Robett Glover was not insubordinate in his question, but he was unrepentant in the asking.  

Robb’s sword gleamed sharp and silver against the rough wood of the table. He could see the blurry outline of his face in the blade. “Stannis has the right. If we should march behind him, it would be to put Robert Baratheon’s rightful heir on the Iron Throne. Our blades would meet first the Lannisters’, then the blades of the Stormlands and the Reach. And with the Westerlands and the Crownlands’ reach over the Riverlands, I cannot say that we would not be brought against the Riverlanders in time. The Vale will not rise. The Ironborn will not rise. The Dornish will not rise.”

Robb paused. Grey Wind came up against his side, and he scratched his ears. “And King Renly. He has no right, no claim. But he marches a hundred-thousand strong and in possession of the Redwyne fleet. If we join our numbers to his, the Lannisters will surely fall and the younger brother will be seated on the throne. We will have upended the oldest of traditions, that of the birthright of the first trueborn son. We will have traded the law of the gods for a Southern king’s impudent ambition.”

Robb’s words hung in the air, the room was silent but for the lingering vibrations of those words.

“If we go South,” finished Robb. “We leave our castles, our women, our harvest unprotected. Winter is coming. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont has sent word that the wildings are fleeing over the Wall in swarms. There are hardly enough black brothers to man but three castles. Our empty seats will no doubt spur Ironborn raiders to come ashore our banks.”

“When the southerners come for us, they will call us craven,” growled the Greatjon.

“And we will look out over the smoking ruins of their homes and fields and tell them of the day that we considered the lives of our people and the safety of our realm more important than the short-lived glory of the battlefield,” retorted Robb.  

_Peace does not set men’s hearts afire, but it does keep them beating._

“I’ll not raise my blade for Lannisters nor Baratheons.” The Greatjon’s face was purpling as he pointed a finger at Robb. “But I will put it through the hearts of those who threaten the North. I won’t hide behind my walls, and wait to beg a new king for his mercy.”

Grey Wind’s hackles were rising. Robb sheathed his sword, and put a hand down to hold his wolf back. “Until there is a direct threat on the North, I will not call the banners to rise. We will not go to war. As your liege lord, that is a command, Lord Umber.”

The tension in the room was crawling up the walls. The Greatjon cursed, and threw his flagon of ale into the fire. It shattered and the fire roared. “You’re green enough to piss grass, boy,” he snarled. “What do you know of war? You sit there in your father’s chair, but you’re better suited to a wooden sword.”

Robb’s mouth went dry. Beside him, his mother strangled her short, intake of breath. This could not be ignored, Father would never let a vassal speak to him so. Robb buried his fingers in Grey Wind’s scruff to steady himself, and spoke in the strongest voice he could muster. “Disobey my command,” he said. “But when you do, we will march on Last Hearth, root you out of your keep, and hang you for an oathbreaker.”

The Greatjon roared, and jumped to his feet, unsheathing the biggest, ugliest greatsword that Robb had ever seen. His mother shrieked, and all along the table, the other heads of houses drew their swords. Ser Rodrik moved to restrain the Greatjon, but the man threw him as if the knight was no bigger than Rickon.

Robb’s heart was throbbing in his ears. “Go.” He released his fistful of Grey Wind’s scruff. Grey Wind snarled and lunged forward. In the blink of an eye, Lord Umber was on his back, his sword spinning three feet away. His hand was dripping blood where Grey Wind had bitten off two fingers.

“My lord father taught me that it was death to bare steel against your liege lord,” said Robb. The words felt like bricks in his mouth, but he made sure to enunciate every one. “But doubtless you only meant to cut my meat.”

There was a horror seeping throughout the room. The Greatjon struggled to rise, sucking at his bloody finger stumps. And then he began to laugh. It was a harsh hacking noise that echoed wetly throughout the chamber.

“Your meat,” he roared. “Is bloody tough.” He spat a mouthful blood on the ground, and then grinned with a red smile. “The boy’s a true Stark after all.”

The huge man collapsed back in his chair. Grey Wind slunk back to Robb’s side. There was no sign of the fingers.

“My loyalty is to the North,” said Robb, his voice rising. “Three-hundred years before, my ancestor Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon the Conqueror not out of cowardice, but out of survival. The King who Knelt did so for the preservation of his people. When the North rode South to aid Robert Baratheon’s rebellion, it was to avenge our brothers and to prevent the carnage of a Targaryen. And now, on this precipice, my first fealty is to the North once again.”

“My lords,” shouted Robin Flint. “For what reason do we serve another southern king? Because they ride on the backs of the Targaryen conquerors? The Targaryens are gone, their dragons are dead. Robert Baratheon and his reign are dead.”

“Lord Flint, speaks truly.” Dacey Mormont’s eyes were blazing. “If three southern kings can claim our lands for our own, why can’t we?” She raised her cup to Robb. “House Mormont pledges fealty to the Starks in Winterfell, the Kings of the North.”

Maege Mormont drew her great spiked mace and laid it on the table. “The Kings of Winter!”

“They can keep their red castle and their iron chair,” said Rickard Karstark. “To the Kings in the North, to Stark!”

“The Kings in the North. _The Kings of Winter! To Stark!”_

Robb stood, and raised his goblet to the furor. “Brothers,” he called. “Sisters! While my father still lives, he is your rightful king! The King in the North! And until that day on which he returns, I will faithfully hold his crown. To King Eddard Stark!”

“To King Eddard,” shouted Cley Cerwyn, and his father beside him.

“The King in the North! King in the North!”

“To Prince Robb,” roared Wyman Manderly. “Prince in the North!”

“King in the North!” bellowed the Greatjon. “Prince in the North!”

“Stark! Stark! STARK!”

They were all calling out now, and Robb was shouting along with them, “ _King in the North!”_ Beside him, Grey Wind was howling, and in the distance above the clamor, he could hear Shaggydog and Summer adding their song to the din. Surely the whole castle was waking in wonder to the cries of which had not been heard since Aegon the Conqueror landed on the shores of the Trident to make the seven kingdoms one.

_“King in the North! King in the North!”_

And Robb’s heart was in his throat as he watched his bannermen kneel and draw their swords for House Stark. _King Eddard Stark. King in the North. King of Winter._

He looked to his mother. There were tears in her eyes as she added her voice. “King Eddard Stark! King in the North!”

_The Lannisters gave my father a crown of blood and tears._

_But not this time. This time, I will see my father rightfully crowned like the northern kings of old. In the godswood under the runes of the first men, and the blessing of the old gods. And with that crown, I shall deliver him Winter’s kingdom._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was particularly difficult owing to the juxtaposition of Robb knowing a bunch of shit he shouldn't, and also basically knowing shit all about anything.
> 
> Also bonus material after this very long chapter. I originally had parts of this chapter written from Wynafryd's POV so if you'd like to read that it's below: 
> 
> \-------
> 
> Wynafryd pressed her hands to the bodice of her dress, breathing hard. Her mother had cut the dress a size small in order to emphasize the flare of fabric at her hips. 
> 
> “Do you want me to loosen the ties?” Wylla was already dressed, and looked particularly lovely in the emerald green of the gown. 
> 
> “Don’t you dare,” said Leona. Their mother shooed Wylla away, and continued sticking pins into Wynafryd’s hair. The end of the sharp pin scraped Wynafryd’s scalp. Wylla made a sympathetic face at her grunt of pain. 
> 
> “What if Wynafryd passes out at the table?” asked Wylla. “I don’t know if that extra inch off her waist is worth a face full of cranberry sauce.” 
> 
> “Wylla,” wheezed Wynafryd, taking too deep a breath. “Get out, you’re making me nervous - ”
> 
> “ - Wylla, dear, go see if your cousins are finished dressing. Orrina was having a time of it trying to convince Joanne to get into her gown. Poor girl worked herself up into tears, and last I heard she was refusing to attend the feast.” 
> 
> “I was just trying to help - ”
> 
> “Wylla, please!” 
> 
> Wylla huffed. “You look very pretty,” she told Wynafryd stiffly, and then stomped out. 
> 
> “Mother?” 
> 
> “Yes, sweet girl.” 
> 
> “Wynafryd swallowed. “If I do pass out at the table, promise that you and Father will leave me there to die of shame.” 
> 
> Leona muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse and Wylla’s name. “That child needs to learn when not to speak her mind. Nothing of the sort will happen, dearheart. Don’t worry your head over it.” 
> 
> What a silly thing for Mother to say. Leona had spent the last three weeks stuffing Wynafryd’s head full of things to worry about. Everything from how fast she should take Robb’s hand when asked to dance, to how many teeth to show when she smiled. 
> 
> Her mother stepped back, and examined her. Wynafryd smiled, and tried to look bright and happy.  
> Leona arranged two of Wynfryd’s curls so that they framed her face, and pursed her lips. “Now, are we absolutely sure about having your hair tied up?” 
> 
> Wynafryd’s mouth dropped in horror. “We decided on it being up, two hours hours ago.” 
> 
> “Yes, yes, I know,” said her mother with a sigh. “It’s just… looking at it now.” 
> 
> Wynafryd flipped around to regard herself in the looking glass. She touched her cheeks and pulled at her hair. She had thought she liked this style, but now that she was thinking about it, perhaps Mother was right, and she did look better with it down...
> 
> \-------
> 
> “Come dance,” Wylla shouted in her ear, and dragged Wynafryd into the middle of the floor. Her sister danced off-beat and much too fast, but with such enthusiasm that Wynafryd couldn’t help but try to keep up with her. 
> 
> When she was on the verge of breathlessness, she twirled into her grandfather who took her hand and spun her round and round. He passed her on to little Robard Flint who could barely reach to put his hand at her waist. 
> 
> Benfred Tallhart asked her to dance, and while she was avoiding his clumsy feet, she caught sight of Robb dancing with a dark-haired girl who looked to be an Umber. Wynafryd turned back to Benfred so she wouldn’t have to watch, and gratefully accepted when Lord Cerwyn offered her his hand. 
> 
> She focused very hard on the story that Cley Cerwyn was telling her about one of his men getting stuck in the mud, and having to be pulled out by a horse. She laughed at all the right parts, and did not think at all about Robb Stark. 
> 
> After Lord Cerwyn, Alys found her and they danced, taking turns leading. “I’ve told Daryn that we can only dance again when he’s danced with three others,” Alys said giggling. “It would be much too suspicious for us to spend the whole night together.” 
> 
> Wynafryd peeked over Alys shoulder to where Daryn Hornwood was dancing a furious stomping jig with Alysanne Mormont. “He may be too tired when you get him back,” she suggested. 
> 
> Alys hummed. “I think he shall manage to keep up with me.” She spun Wynafryd in a circle. “And you, dear Wynafryd? You’re not feeling too tired to dance are you?” 
> 
> Wynafryd was beginning to feel the bottoms of her feet ache, but she shook her head. “No not at all.” 
> 
> “Wonderful,” Alys beamed. “I’ll leave you to it then.” She dropped Wynafryd’s hands, and darted away. 
> 
> “Alys!” Wynafryd started to follow her, but then stopped short when she saw Robb. 
> 
> \-------


	9. Ghost Girls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heart is with the US right now, even though I'm overseas. I voted absentee ballot, hope everyone EVERYONE gets out and votes today. I'll be up late night waiting for the results.
> 
> The beginning of this is a bit creepy, probably owing to the fact that I just binged all of The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!

Something woke him up.

Ned lifted his head from his chest. The chill in the air made his eyes water. Only the embers of the fire were still burning, and they went with a sudden gust of wind. He struggled to push himself into a seated position, his hips aching from the hard ground.

Sansa was sleeping with one arm and leg thrown over Lady. Her hair was a bright splash against the wolf’s fur. Nymeria was curled a few feet away. Ned squinted in the darkness, but he could not see Arya. It was not unusual for her to wander at night. Ned had worried at first about how little Arya seemed to seep, but Sansa told him to leave it be.

_Nightmares, Sansa said. She sleeps when she’s tired._

In the light of the morning, they would find Arya dozing next to Nymeria, curled up like a pup. Often, they would pack up camp around her, letting her sleep until the moment they departed.

But Ned did not like not knowing where Arya was. He did not think he would ever grow accustomed to the gnawing feeling in his stomach that accompanied his daughter’s absence. The memories of the weeks apart from them, not knowing if they were alive, twisted in him like a dagger.

He craned his head up. The night sky was thick with clouds. The moon did not show its face. There was a cold wind lifting the hairs on the back of his neck, and he could not tell the hour in the blue-black darkness.

Brienne had found him a sturdy walking stick, and he leaned on it heavily as he got to his feet. Pins and needles buzzed in his good foot. His bad foot was stiff, making his steps ungainly. He limped over to where Brienne was sleeping, her head against a mossy log. Both of the knight’s hands were folded over the hilt of her sword. Even in sleep, her forehead puckered and she moved restlessly. _She must be fighting in her dreams._

Ned hunched over his stick, and scanned the campsite. The horses were huddled in a clump, their heads hanging as they dozed. The world was empty and silent but for the even breathing of those in slumber. Ned huffed. His own breath puffed white in the cold air.

He looked towards the dark woods, and then back to where Sansa lay sleeping. She did not like him walking far on his leg, but he did not want to wake her. His worries were unfounded. Arya had most likely gone walking to find dry twigs to restart the fire.

But instead of laying back down, he hobbled into the trees. It was hard and painful to swing his bad leg forward after weeks of disuse. It made him think of the deer that he and Robert hunted in the crown of their youth. A wounded stag could only limp for so long.

His leg twinged with each step. The trees were thicker here. Their shadows enveloped him in darkness. Roots were twisting under his feet. They seemed to wrap around his ankles. Ned’s head swam like Pycelle had just poured milk of the poppy down his throat.

He never should have left. His leg was on fire. Jolts of pain were reaching into his hip. The girls were right, it was too dangerous for him to wander alone. He would be no help to Arya even if he did find her. She would have to half-carry him back to camp.

The trees moaned and creaked. He flinched, thinking they were falling. Instead it was him that tripped and collapsed on the ground. He cried out, seizing his throbbing leg. His shout echoed in the emptiness.

But it was not his own howl that came back to him. There was another sound on the breeze. A low, guttural hissing that dripped into his ears like poison. It was a voice, and it was calling to him. _Arya._

His nails dug trenches in the damp earth as he clambered to his feet.

_“Hen morghon īlon māzigon, naejot morghon īlon obūljarion.”_

There was a clearing in the trees. Ned shuffled forward. In the middle, was his daughter. Her back was to him, her short hair whipping about her shoulders.

 _Arya._ Ned tried to call out to her, but his tongue was clumsy and bloated. He could not speak. His limbs were as weighty as stone.

Arya stood before three immense trees, their bark pale and glistening in the darkness.  _Weirwoods._ Their leaves trembled, bright as rubies. Arya threw her head back, and Ned realized the terrible voice was coming from _her._

She bent, rummaging through her bag. The bag that never left her side. In her hands was something white and drooping. _A face._ A man’s face. The mouth and eyes gaped grotesquely.

As he watched, Arya stepped up to the first weirwood. She slit her palm with a dagger, and smeared the blood across the bark. Then she pressed the face against it. The tree screamed in protest, but the features of the face twisted themselves into the bark. Blood oozed from the eyes and mouth. The tree groaned.

Ice gripped his heart. _Something had his daughter._ It’s terrible voice was forcing her head up and issuing from her lips. He dragged himself forward, but it was like trying  to swim through mud.

 _“Hen morghon īlon māzigon, naejot morghon īlon obūljarion,”_ spilled from Arya’s mouth. _“Hen morghon īlon māzigon, naejot morghon īlon obūljarion…”_

She anointed another weirwood with blood. It spilled through her fists, and ran in rivulets down her arms. The sharp features were sagging in death, the flesh rotting. The gaping maw of Petyr Baelish screamed as it was pressed into the core of the tree.

The wind rattled through the mouth of the third face, opening it in a silent howl.

 _“Arya.”_ Ned’s voice was like the cracking of leaves. _“Arya.”_

That which wore his daughter’s face turned at his call. Her features were smooth and blank, but her _eyes._ Her eyes were milky and clouded with blindness. Unseeing. It couldn’t be Arya. Arya had his eyes, Stark eyes. Lyanna’s eyes, Jon’s eyes.

 _“Valar morghulis,”_ said the girl.

Ned choked on his tongue. “Arya?”

 _“Valar morghulis.”_ It sounded like the sigh before death.

“My daughter.” Fear slid down his spine. “Give me my daughter.”

 _“Valar Morghulis,”_ wailed the faces in the weirwood.

“There are no gods here,” whispered Ned.

 _“Morghon iksis mēre yn ēza naenie laehurlion,”_ sighed the girl. She began walking towards him, the face dangling from her fingertips. As she came closer, Ned saw the sagging features of Ilyn Payne. His mouth was as open and empty as it had been in life.

“Arya.” He was whimpering. His vision blurred, and darkened. He was lost in the blackness. It was hard to breath, there was fabric pressed against his mouth. His chin hit something hard. _The chopping block._

He was blind. Waiting for the blow to fall.

_Hen morghon īlon māzigon, naejot morghon īlon obūljarion._

_Hen morghon īlon māzigon, naejot morghon īlon obūljarion._

_Hen morghon īlon māzigon, naejot morghon īlon obūljarion._

“Father!”

Ned opened his eyes. The sunlight was blinding. His mouth was full of dirt, and he gagged.

“What are you _doing?”_ Sansa’s face appeared above him, pale as the weirwood. _The weirwood._ He grasped for the strange words, but they vanished like smoke on the wind.

“Help,” Ned croaked. “Arya.”

He jerked his head up. He was lying in the clearing, but where he expected to see the weirwood trees, there were only darkened stumps.

“She’s out looking for you,” Sansa scolded. “We all are.” She tucked her thumb and forefinger between her lips, and whistled sharply.

After a moment, Arya and the wolves came running out of the woods. Brienne was hot on their heels.

Arya bounded next to him, and patted him all over. “Father, what happened?”

“Are you hurt?” Sansa fussed with his shirt. “You’re covered in scratches, and your hands are filthy.”

“Where am I?”

“Quite a ways from the campsite,” said Brienne. “Did you walk all this way on your leg, Lord Stark?”

“I…” Ned looked around. His recollection was murky. _Arya._ He looked at his daughter. Her eyes were clear and grey. Her face was pursed with concern

“You don’t know?” Sansa shook her head, and began picking leaves from his hair.

“I was dreaming,” said Ned. “It was so real.”

“About what?” asked Arya.

Ned stared at her. There were dark circles under her eyes. There were always dark circles under Arya’s eyes. “About the godswood. I was in the godswood.”

Sansa frowned. She looked at Brienne. “Perhaps we might rest for a few more hours…”

“No!” Ned did not want to linger here. “We must keep moving.”

“Slowly,” Sansa commanded as he tried to get up. “Stay here. Brienne and I will fetch your horse so you don’t have to walk all the way back. Arya, do you have any water?”

“Here, Father.” Arya offered him her waterskin.

“Thank you, sweetling.” Ned gave her a wavering smile.

She smiled back. Ned felt foolish and irrational. He wrapped an arm around his daughter, and she cuddled into his chest. This was his little girl. Already the dream, as unnerving as it had been, was fading.

He rested his chin on her head, and then it came to him. “Vala morgis.”

Arya stiffened.

“Vala morgis. That is what the godswood told me.”

Arya pulled away, and stared at him. “The godswood said that to you?”

“In my dream,” said Ned. “I dreamed it.”

“Vala morgis,” Arya repeated. _“Valar morghulis?”_

Ned shivered. “What… what is that?”

Arya worried her lip. “It’s Valyrian. A greeting from Essos.”

“What does it mean?” The little Valyrian that Ned remembered had been written, never spoken.

 _“All men must die,”_ translated Arya. “The response is _valar dohaeris._ All men must serve.”

“Did you learn it in Braavos?” Ned’s voice was barely a whisper.

“No,” said Arya. “At Harrenhal.”

There was nothing more to say. Arya’s face was shadowed and guarded. “Nevermind. Don’t think anymore on it. Perhaps I’ve heard it said somewhere before.” Ned stroked her hair back.

“Perhaps,” Arya mumbled. She buried her face back in his shoulder. They waited quietly for Ned’s horse. Arya played absentmindedly with his fingers, pressing her palm against his. The skin on her hand was rough and jagged, like it had been recently cut.

Ned did not look to confirm it.

\-------

Arya’s eyes were burning and tearing from the wind. They were all tired, half-clinging to their horses. Tyrion might be a Lannister, but Arya praised the Imp for the saddle he had given her father. Without it, Ned would have surely fallen from exhaustion.

Get to Riverrun. Get to Riverrun, and they could breath. They’d be safe surrounded by the castle walls and Tully guardsmen. She wanted a real Maester to look at Father’s leg, and a real bed for him to rest in. She wouldn’t mind a feather mattress either. The woods made her dizzy and restless. She’d been wandering at night, seeing faces in the trees.

“Look ahead!”

Arya looked up. A castle rose up in the distance, shimmering in the early evening light. The last time she had seen that keep, she had been so small and broken. Dressed in enemy rags with fresh blood on her hands. “Acorn Hall.”

Acorn Hall was a stout, modest castle with stone curtain walls framing an oaken keep. Bright yellow flags fluttered from the ramparts. The gate was open, and two guards stepped onto the bridge as they approached.

“Good day,” Ned called, bringing their party to a stop. “My family and I have been traveling a long ways. I humbly request an audience with Lord Smallwood, so that I might beseech him refreshments and a place to rest.”  

“Seven blessings on you, my lord,” said the man. His eyes swept over their tattered group. They made a peculiar sight. High manners and bearing, but dressed in little more than soiled rags. “Who may I say calls on my lord?”

“Guests,” her father responded. “And dear friends of Hoster Tully.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Help me dismount,” whispered her father. “I would greet Lord Smallwood on two legs.” It was difficult for them to get Father off and on his horse. Arya was grudgingly grateful when the remaining guard assisted them.

But it was not Lord Smallwood who came for them. It was Lady Ravella Smallwood, her brow creased in curiosity. She made a brighter image than she had in Arya’s muddy memories. But war did wear things down and make them dull.

By the look in her eyes, and the way her lips parted, Arya was sure she knew them on sight. Sigils were unnecessary.  Her father with his strapped leg, Sansa with her flaming hair, Brienne in her armor, and she in her britches. They had left Lady and Nymeria in the trees, but the wolves’ presence was hardly needed to recognize them.

“Lady Ravella Smallwood, I presume.” Father bowed his head.

“You presume correctly, my lord,” said Lady Smallwood. “My husband is off hawking in the fields.” She stared at them shaking her head, “I apologize… my lord, we did not expect to have guests.”

“We are travelers looking for beds and food,” said Ned softly. “It is your choice, my lady. If you cannot host us, we will go at once in good faith. There will be no slight taken.”

Lady Ravella drew herself up. “Acorn Hall is small, my lord, but we share what we have. Of course you will bed here for the night. Come in. Quickly, quickly.” She looked over their shoulders as they came in. She ordered the guards to lower the gate, and to only open it when Lord Smallwood returned with his men.

They were relieved of their horses. Lady Smallwood eyed their dirty clothes, and fussed at once over Sansa and Arya. “You poor dears. Calla, go heat water for baths immediately. All four of our guests have been traveling a very long way. We need two dresses for the young ladies. See if any of Carellen’s old ones will fit this little one, and perhaps one of mine maiden gowns will suit the older. My dear, you are so lovely and tall. And surely, we must have garments for the lord and his… companion. I don’t think we have a gown to fit you, my lady, but not to worry, something clean and dry can always be found. Ruth, run down to the kitchens and tell Myrtle that we have guests for dinner. Whatever she was planning to serve, tell her to make more of it. And open a fresh cask of wine. Why are you all standing about? Go!”

Arya and Sansa were whisked upstairs and scrubbed to the bone by Lady Smallwood’s maids. Sansa’s skin turned as red as her hair under the assault. She refused to speak to Arya after Arya pointed out she looked like a cooked lobster.

Their hair was washed, combed, cut, and braided. Arya endured being buttoned into a violet dress with lace dotted all over with baby pearls. They dressed Sansa in an older black and white gown embroidered with long-necked swans.

The maids only ever addressed them as “my lady.” Arya and Sansa did tell them otherwise.

They were ushered down to the dinner table, where they found Father and Brienne freshly washed and dressed as well. Father wore a surcoat decorated with acorns, and Brienne a long tunic that did not match her breeches. There was no maester at Acorn Hall, but Lady Smallwood had fetched an old woman who knew healing to rewrap Father’s leg.

Lady Smallwood swept in, holding the hand of a girl about Arya’s age. “My daughter, Lady Carellen.” The girl curtseyed.

“Your kindness and generosity, is deeply appreciated,” said Ned. “You cannot know the extent of our gratefulness.”

“It is no trouble at all,” said Lady Ravella in a breezy tone. “Come, sit for dinner. You must be famished. Apologies on behalf of my husband. He is bathing and dressing for dinner.”

Lord Smallwood was a short man with greying hair. He gripped Father’s hand. “My lord. You are welcome to take shelter here tonight, but I must ask that you only stay the one night.”

“Of course,” said Ned. “We are in your debt, Lord Smallwood. We won’t burden you any longer than that, we’re quite anxious to reach our destination.”

“I’m sorry we cannot offer you more,” said Lord Smallwood. “But these are troubled times, my lord.”

They did not speak of what trouble Lord Smallwood referred to. Dinner was a quiet affair. Lady Smallwood made small bits of conversation about the harvest and the weather. Sansa jumped in to discuss the finer points of needle work, while Arya focused on savoring every bite of the warm chestnut soup they were served.

Lady Smallwood insisted that Carellen sing over dessert. The girl turned pink, but obliged her mother. She sang a slow, sweet ballad of Autumn. Of the leaves falling like they were falling in love with the ground.

Sansa had tears in her eyes when Carellen finished. Arya didn’t even make fun of her.

After dinner, Lady Smallwood brought Arya and Sansa up to prepare for bed. “You’ll be sharing Carellen’s room. I’m afraid we don’t have many suitable rooms prepared and warmed.”

Sansa and Arya were given Carellen’s bed, while the maids maid up a tiny bed for the lady herself on the couch against the wall. Sansa sighed happily when they dressed in white linen nightrails. Her sister never complained, but Arya knew how much she deeply disliked sleeping night after night in the dirt.

“Those are my old nightdresses,” Carellen was telling them as her maid Olivia combed out her curls. “But Mother said that you don’t have any nightdresses, so you can certainly borrow mine. What do you sleep in at night? Why aren’t you traveling without any clothes?”

“We left where we came from rather quickly,” said Sansa.

“I’ve never been anywhere,” said Carellen, mournfully. “Only to Pinkmaiden sometimes to have tea with the Pipers, and that doesn’t really count because it’s only half a days ride. Mother is always saying that she’d like to take me to Stonehelm. She grew up there, you see, but it’s never happened. And it certainly won’t happen now. Mother says that the Stormlands are a mess, what with Renly Baratheon calling the Stormlords to arms. It’s simply ghastly. Mother’s cousin, Lord Gulian is the head of House Swann, and he hasn’t declared for Renly. How could he? His son is serving in King Joffrey’s kingsguard.” Carellen took a breath. “Mother isn’t here now, won’t you tell me your names?”

Sansa shook her head. “We’re sorry to be so secretive, but it’s for your own protection.”

Carellen pouted. “Oh everyone is always saying that everything is for _my own good._ It’s not fair. That’s why I never get to go anywhere or do anything fun. _”_

“If you could go anywhere, where would you go?” asked Arya.

Carellen’s eyes lit up. “Oh, everywhere I think. I’d love to go to Oldtown to see the Hightower. I’ve heard you’re allowed to climb all the way to the top. You can see halfway across the world. And there are a thousand rainbows in the Starry Sept when the sun hits a certain point in the sky. Or to Highgarden to see the roses. Did you know they have masquerade balls in the autumn? I’d love nothing more than to go to a ball I think. Or I’d go to King’s Landing to see Aegon’s castle. I’ve never seen the ocean. Calla says that one can see all the way to Pentos on a clear day.”

“King’s Landing isn’t very nice,” said Arya. “You should pick somewhere else.” Sansa pinched her hard, and she yelped and scowled.

“You’ve been to King’s Landing?” asked Carellen. “Oh, was everyone dressed absolutely splendidly? I always wanted to see a queen’s gown - ”

“ - Yes,” said Sansa, shortly. “But my sister is right. There are much lovelier places to visit than King’s Landing.”

“The North is wonderful this time of year,” offered Arya.

Carellen frowned. “I don’t think the Northerns have many balls or pretty dresses.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I heard that some Northerners dress all in _animal skins._ Isn’t that horrid? But I think I’d like to go most anywhere exciting. Mother and Father hardly let me out of their sight.”

“You’re still young,” said Sansa softly. “You have plenty of time to wander from home.”

“Yes, but it’s such a long time until I’m grown up,” sighed Carellen. “Forever, almost.”

Forever was always shorter than expected. Arya laid her head on the soft pillow. She tried to relax, but her muscles stayed tight and strung. Her head and heart never stopped racing. She flopped back and forth on the bed like a fish.

“Go to sleep,” Sansa murmured. Her sister was already half-asleep. “I’m right here if you have nightmares.”

“I miss Nymeria,” Arya whispered.

“They’re fine,” sighed Sansa. “Can’t you feel them?”

“Yes,” Arya muttered, sulking. But Sansa didn’t respond. She was asleep, like Arya should be. Her sister was so tired of running. Arya didn’t know how to stop.

She sat up slowly as not to wake Sansa, and dangled her feet over the side of the bed. Arya needed to leave, needed to go walking or running. The longer she stayed in bed, the more that ugliness filled her head. In her dreams she ran from the Waif and Jaqen H’ghar. They smiled at her in her dreams, that that was more horrifying than anything.

She wanted to run, but from what? Her family was so close to being back together. Maybe she didn’t deserve that. Maybe everyone would be happier if she just kept running. Found a new face. Maybe she couldn’t be happy anymore.

Her hand was on the door handle.

“What are you doing?” Carellen’s sleepy voice drifted over. She was peeking at Arya over her covers.

“I… I was going to a walk. I can’t sleep.”

Carellen sat up. “You can’t go that way. You have to pass through the hall, and there’s bound to be servants up and about. They’ll call Mother, and send you right back.”

“Shhh,” hissed Arya, looking at Sansa. But her sister just sighed in sleep, and rolled over. “You’ll wake up my sister.” Arya glanced at the window. If she waited for Carellen to go back to sleep, she could crawl out that way. But Carellen just blinked at her.

“Will you tell me your name now that your sister is asleep?”

“No,” said Arya.

Carellen huffed. Arya stared at her, getting antsy. Carellen crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’m going for a walk,” said Arya. “I’m going to go out the window, and you’re going to promise to not tell your mother or my sister.”

Carellen’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t do that! You’ll fall and get hurt.”

“No I won’t,” said Arya. “I’m very good at climbing. Now say you’ll promise.”

“No,” said Carellen. “I won’t promise. Unless you take me with you.”

“Absolutely not. You have to stay here.”

“This is my room. You’re wearing my nightdress. And I’ll tell right now if you don’t take me with you.”

“Seven hells,” cursed Arya, making Carellen squeak. “You can’t talk, and you have to do as I say.”

Carellen nodded.

Arya eased the window open. The keep wasn’t tall, just two stories. There were thick vines twining up the stone walls. She saw fires flickering in the distance, but the yard below was silent and dark.

Arya swung her legs out over the ledge, and tugged on the vines. They would hold the weight of two little girls. She climbed out, and then looked up. Carellen peered out the window at her, chewing on her lip.

Arya put a finger to her lips, and pointed at a foothold. Slowly, slowly Carellen eased out the window and onto the vine. When she was fully clinging to the wall, Carellen squeezed her eyes shut and stilled.

“Keep going,” whispered Arya.

Carellen shook her head.

“You can do it. You have to open your eyes.” Arya crawled back up, and touched Carellen’s dangling foot. “Step here next.”

“I’m afraid,” whimpered Carellen.

“I know,” said Arya. “But you have to go up or down. You can’t stay here.”

Slowly, slowly, Carellen found the next vine with her foot, and then then next. Arya went down under her, whispering encouragement. She dropped to the ground, and waited for Carellen. But the girl grabbed the wrong vine, and it snapped. Carellen shrieked, and crashed on top of Arya who had attempted to catch her.

Frozen on the ground, they waited for heads to pop out of the windows, or feet to come running. But no one came.

“That was so scary,” gasped Carellen.

Of all the scary things in the world, Arya wouldn’t have ranked falling two feet to the ground, but she didn’t say so. It had been scary for Carellen, and that was all that mattered.

“What do we do now?”

Arya looked around. The stars were bright, the moon was shining, the air was crisp. “Let’s walk up there,” Arya said, pointing to the ramparts atop the stone curtain walls. “We can look at the stars.”

“Up there?” asked Carellen.

“Yes,” said Arya. “Come on.”

Carellen rubbed the back of her leg with her foot. She looked like a little ghost in the darkness. “Okay.” She grabbed Arya’s hand, and Arya let her.

They ran to the wall, and climbed the narrow steps set into the stone. Arya popped her head up, and checked. The ramparts were silent and empty. She pulled Carellen up. The light of the moon set everything aglow, and they leaned over the edge of the wall looking at the rolling hills and forests of the Riverlands.

“That way is Riverrun,” said Carellen. “That way is Harrenhal and the God’s Eye. Past there is King’s Landing.”

“I can’t see them,” murmured Arya.

“Of course not,” said Carellen. “Even in the daytime they’re too far to see.” She rested her head on her hands. “If I guess your name will you tell it to me?”

Arya thought about it. “Maybe.”

Carellen hummed. “Walda?”

“No,” said Arya. “Definitely not.”

“Mina?”

“No.”

“Darla? Elyana? Roslin?”

“No, no, no.”

“Jeyne?”

“No.”

“Sallei? Catelyn? Mya?”

“Yes,” said Arya. “Catelyn.” It was one of her names, after all.

Carellen brightened with success. “Catelyn. That’s funny though. You don’t look very much like a Catelyn.”

“I’ve been told that before,” said Arya. “Most people call me Cat.”

“That’s better,” decided Carellen. “Oh Cat, I wish you could stay. No one ever comes to visit us, and we never get to go anywhere. It’s so lonely sometimes.” She looked over at Arya. “I had a brother once, but he died when I was five.”

Arya knew. “What was his name?”

“Myles,” said Carellen. “He used to sit and play dolls with me even though playing dolls is for ladies. I wish he hadn’t died.”

“I lost my brother too,” said Arya quietly. Sansa would pinch her if she was here, but Arya couldn’t find it in her to care.

“Was it sickness?” whispered Carellen. “That’s what Mother says took Myles.”

“Something like that.” _Greed and hate is a sickness._

“Sometimes I have nightmares about getting sick,” said Carellen. “Do you get nightmares too? Mother says not to worry that dreams aren’t real, but they feel very _real_ , and I don’t know how to stop being scared.”

“I have nightmares too,” said Arya. “But not about sickness.”

“Mother gives me tea with honey when I have bad dreams,” said Carellen. “And she tells me to think about happy things like new dresses and ribbons. Beef stew and pigeon pie and candied apples and lemon cakes. Blooming flowers and kittens, and singing, and dancing. What kinds of things do you like?”

And though Arya doubted very much that these things would work, she considered it. “I like… when there’s fresh snow on the ground. I like sparring with my sword, and beating my little brother at archery. I like new clothes, and sitting by the fire when it’s cold. I like teasing my sister and brushing my… dog. I like when the people I love are safe.”  

“If you think about those things, maybe you’ll dream about them,” said Carellen. “And then you’ll be able to fall asleep.”

“Maybe,” said Arya. “But I don’t want to sleep yet.”

“Okay.” Carellen yawned. “I’ll stay with you. I don’t want to sleep yet either.”  

They sat and watched the stars until Carellen nodded off against Arya’s shoulder. The sky was getting lighter. Arya shook her awake, and took her hand. “Let’s go back.”

She boosted Carellen up the vines, and they scrambled back into the room. Carellen padded into her little makeshift bed, and buried her face in the covers. Sansa had spread her long limbs across the bed, and Arya shoved her over until she had room to curl up.

“Good night, Cat.”

“Sweet dreams, Carellen.”

\-------

A bug flew into Jaime’s face, and he killed it with a slap. He was filthy and covered in scratches from traveling. Why the Riverlands couldn’t build a decent inn was beyond comprehension. If he had his way, he might be driving the hilt of his sword into Stannis’ neck or leading the charge against Renly.

Instead he was searching the seven-times-damned Riverlands for the seven-times-damned Starks.

He would have to congratulate Eddard Stark before dragging him away in chains. Drugging guards of the Crown, and running away on a broken leg were no small feat. And he had to admit curiosity. How in seven hells had they smuggled little Sansa Stark out from under his nose. He was quite anxious to hear the tale.

As clever as that had been, it wasn’t that hard to track their whereabouts. Jaime knew they would take the fastest way to Hoster Tully, cutting straight across the heart of the Riverlands. They’d found burnt out camps, and two drunkards telling stories of girls with wolves. Jaime nearly laughed. It was far too easy.

He’d sent his squire ahead to look for shelter, and Josmyn Peckledon came galloping back after a short while. “Acorn Hall, my lord. They might have stopped there.”

They’d be stupid to stop there. Better to sleep in ditches. Ditches couldn’t snitch.

The gate was up when they rode up. How curious. They were still in the peace before the storm. Hpw strange they felt the need to take such precaution.

“Tell your lord that King Joffrey has sent us,” Jaime told the stone-faced guards. “By order of the Crown, you are to allow us entrance.”  

Lord Smallwood was a mousy man, who looked at the ground when Jaime spoke to him. His wife was quite striking, with dark hair and eyes, but her face was hard. She was one of the Swann girls, if Jaime recalled right. Her cousin was his brother in white now.

“We’re seeking fugitives from the Crown,” said Jaime with an easy smile. “Surely you’ve heard. Traitors to King Joffrey’s reign. Disgraced Hand of the King, Eddard Stark. He would have been traveling with his two daughters and a woman in armor. They ride with wolves at their side.”

“Wolves?” asked Lady Smallwood. “That must be a curious sight.”

“We’ve not had any travelers by the name Stark,” said Lord Smallwood. “We would have sent a raven to his grace at once.”

“You’re quite sure,” Jaime pressed. “You’ve seen nothing unusual? They would have passed directly through this way on their escape to Riverrun.”

“No, my lord.” The man was stubborn.

Jaime sighed, and clicked his tongue. “Then of course you won’t object to my men searching your castle and speaking with your men. If you have nothing to hide.”

“What crime have I committed to deserve such imposition?” Lord Smallwood’s face was puce with anger.

“I’m sure King Joffrey would be very interested to know that you think serving his interests is an imposition,” said Jaime. “He may even feel the need to share your convictions with my father.”

Lord Smallwood looked at the ground again, ears burning.

“Of course it is no imposition,” said Lady Smallwood. She threw out an arm beckoning them forward. “Surely you will sup with us when you are finished. My… lords.”

“That sounds lovely,” Jaime told her. He turned to his men. “Search every room in the castle, leave no stone unturned. Question every man, woman, and child you see. Ask them all if they’ve seen a man with a broken leg or a girl with red hair.”

He turned back to the Smallwoods. Their faces were tight and pinched.

“Thank you for your hospitality. The Crown appreciates your support.”

“We aim to serve.” Lady Smallwood’s tone was nothing less than pleasant.

They turned the castle upside down, in perhaps a less delicate manner than could have been achieved. Nothing of the Starks was found. None of the maids had seen a girl with red hair. None of the stable boys had helped a man with a splinted leg. The cook, the nurse, the squires. It seemed no one had ever heard of Eddard Stark, much less seen him supping with the Smallwoods.

“Nothing, my lord,” Puckens told him. “Not a trace.”

Jaime’s mouth twisted. He’d had such a sure feeling that the Starks had passed this way. That the Smallwoods were lying through their teeth. Curious.

And then Osfryd Kettleblack tossed a dirty looking urchin at his feet. “He says he’s seen something. Didn’t you boy?”

Jaime smiled at the boy. “And who might you be?”

“Jack,” mumbled the boy. “I empty the chamber pots and scrub the boots. M’lord.”

“Is there something you’d like to tell us, Jack?” asked Jaime.

Jack looked at his feet. “The man said you would pay me.”

“Ah, that’s right,” said Jaime. “Is this what you want?” He held up a gold dragon, twinkling between his fingers.

Jack stared at it hungrily, like he could taste the gold. “There was a man with his leg wrapped up. Highborn man. He had two girls with him. One of the girls had hair like fire. There was a woman in armor. Lady Smallwood gave them clothes and a bed.”  

“When was this, Jack?”

“A few days past,” said Jack. “They only stayed the night. Then my lord gave them fresh horses and sent them on their way.”

Jaime smiled. “That’s very good. Thank you, Jack.” He turned. “Osfryd go round up the men and tell them we won’t be staying for dinner.”

“My lord,” Osfryd protested. “The Smallwoods are butchering a sow.”

“Let them enjoy it,” said Jaime. “We have other matters to attend to.”

They rode away. The thrill of the chase, spurred Jaime forward. His father had said to catch them before Riverrun, and it would be a close victory.

 _Remind the Riverlords who their king is,_ his father had said. _Remind them that we are watching._

There was a tall oak outside Acorn Hall that looked to have guarded the castle for centuries. Jaime had ordered it set ablaze, and for Jack to be left tied and bound at the entrance to the castle. Jaime had dropped the golden dragon in his lap. It was always good thing to know your traitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here are the Valyrian translations from the first part. I am definitely not an expert in Valyrian, so if anyone has a better translation, let me know!
> 
> Hen morghon īlon māzigon, naejot morghon īlon obūljarion: From Death we become, to Death we succumb. 
> 
> Morghon iksis mēre yn ēza naenie laehurlion: Death is one with many faces
> 
> I’m not going to go into detail about what happened in the first part, but suffice to say there is a price for messing with blood magic for personal gain. 
> 
> The line from Carellen’s song: “Leaves falling like they were falling in love with the ground” is from an Andrea Gibson poem. She’s one of my favorites, and you can listen to the poem here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Ekzbvrt2nQ
> 
> Also Arya really needs a friend. Like when was the last time she had a girl her own age to chill with.


	10. Milk Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you for all your lovely comments while I was away, I love love love hearing that you’ve enjoyed reading this story. Recognizable dialogue from “The North Remembers” and A Clash of Kings. Enjoy!

Dawn was slanting through the window, filling the room with a soft, rosy light. The patch of sunlight on the sheets crept closer and closer to Myrcella's outstretched hand. Just before it reached her fingertips, she drew her hand away and tucked it under her cheek. 

There was nothing so lovely as lying abed in the morning hush. A delicate stillness hung in the air, left in the wake of a long, dark night. Everything was yet to be touched by the harsh business of the day. 

Faintly, she could hear the clinking of china as Essie and Dot set the table for breakfast. The soft scraping of chairs sliding across stone, the murmur of the maids' chatter, and Septa Eglantine's mild scolding. Their footsteps came up outside of her bedchamber door, and Myrcella hid her head under the feather blanket. 

"Wake up, Princess," trilled Septa Eglantine. Her knuckles rapped smartly against the wood. She came into the room without giving Myrcella time to answer. "Maidens must rise with the glory of the dawn. The gods have blessed us with another joyous day!"

As if there was anything very joyous about Myrcella's days. She crept from beneath the covers, dragging her feet. The maids pushed her limp arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown, and popped satin slippers on her feet. Septa Eglantine didn't notice - or rather pretended not to notice - Myrcella's lack of enthusiasm. She puttered around singing the Seven's praises, and briskly wiped Myrcella's face with a damp cloth. 

When she offered her hand to take Myrcella to the breakfast table, Myrcella yanked hers away. A sliver of mean pleasure ran through her when her Septa's smile faltered the tiniest bit. It made Myrcella feel very good for a moment, and then very lonely. To disguise the discontent, she picked up her doll Amaryllis, with the bouncy blond curls, and smoothed down the yellow dress she was wearing. 

"Shall I set a place at the table for Lady Amaryllis and Lady Camellia?" asked Essie. 

"No." Myrcella had taken Lady Camellia with her pretty, painted face and silky, red hair, and buried her in the bottom of her hope chest under a pile of old dresses. "Just for Amaryllis." 

"Of course, Princess." 

It was stuffy in the sitting room. The windows were tightly closed, and shuttered. Thick drapes were pulled across so as to only allow a sliver of light into the room. Myrcella knew better than to ask for them to be opened. Mother had ordered the Holdfast closed up ever since the disastrous night of Sansa and Joffrey's betrothal.  

But the low light and still air made Myrcella's heart beat fast, made her think of being trapped in a tomb. And tombs made her think of Father, lying somewhere under stone slabs, underground, unable to breath or see or cry for help. 

Of course what they buried hadn't _really_ been her father. Septa Eglantine said a body was just a body when the Stranger came calling to carry someone's soul to the Seven Heavens. And Myrcella had seen that for herself, Father's body laid out in the Sept of Baelor, two gold dragons weighing down his eyelids. He was just  _empty._

After the funeral, one of the septons had presented Myrcella with the tiniest picture card depicting the Father. It was all gleaming jewel-toned paints, and glittering gold leaf. In the picture, the Father smiled benevolently down upon the little children, cradling the cheek of a yellow-haired girl in the palm of his hand. Septa Eglantine had propped the little picture on Myrcella's vanity, but when she wasn't looking, Myrcella had tipped it so it lay face down. 

"Eat, Princess." 

Myrcella opened her mouth, and Septa Eglantine pushed a piece of bread and jam between her lips. It was sickly sweet, the bread still warm and dripping with blackberry jam. But when she chewed, it turned to a lump of nothingness on her tongue. 

"I don't like blackberries," mumbled Myrcella. "Tell the kitchens to send strawberries instead." 

"Only blackberries this morning," said Septa Eglantine. "They're fresh from your garden if I'm not mistaken." 

"I want strawberries," said Myrcella. She could feel her face getting hot, and angry tears pricking at her eyes. "I  _want_ them." It was a horribly stupid thing to cry about, such a babyish reaction. She'd scold Tommen in a heartbeat if he cried about something as stupid as berries at breakfast. 

"Strawberries come from the Reach, my lady," Dot said. An unspoken plea for understanding. 

Myrcella swallowed her tears, and took an unwilling bite. She thought of the last time that she had seen Uncle Renly with his handsome face and laughing eyes. He had wrapped a strand of Myrcella's hair around his finger, and told her  _what a pretty girl she was growing up to be. The spitting image of her mother._ Did Uncle Renly hate her now? Did he hate all of them? Perhaps he had remembered that Myrcella loved strawberries, and had forbade the merchants from bringing any more up the Rose Road. 

But that was a silly thought. Uncle Renly wouldn't remember a thing like that, and if he did, he certainly wouldn't care. 

Tommen stumbled out of his room, yawning. One hand rubbed at his eyes, while the other held tightly to Essie's. She helped him into his chair, and he began stuffing his face with pastries. Septa Eglantine pushed his hair back with a fond touch. 

"I'm to ride in the tourney today," Tommen reminded them through a mouthful of jelly. "Mother said I should get my own lance and everything." 

"That's right," Myrcella agreed, smiling so that Tommen wouldn't see that she'd been upset. "You will look very brave riding across the yard with all the other knights." 

"Will Mother come watch me ride?" 

"Mother hasn't been feeling very well," Myrcella said. "But I'll be watching with Septa Eglantine. And perhaps Uncle Tyrion will be there as well. You must make us proud." 

"I will." Tommen was already distracted, playing with the kitten scratching at his chair. "I'll be as brave as Uncle Jaime."

Myrcella wished Uncle Jaime was here. Mother had holed up in her chambers since he and Grandfather had ridden out. At first, Myrcella had feared that they had gone off to challenge her Uncles, but Uncle Tyrion had assured her that Grandfather had merely gone to raise troops, and that Uncle Jaime had been sent after the Starks. The black, selfish part that lived inside Myrcella hoped very much that Uncle Jaime brought Sansa back. 

_"Leave Joffrey to me," Sansa had whispered. "I know how to handle him. All you must do is keep yourself and Tommen safe. Can you do that for me?"_

But Sansa was gone now. Gone like all the others. These days it felt like all anyone ever did was leave. Except Joffrey. He was even more prone to rages since Sansa had disappeared. Myrcella had been doing her best to keep herself and Tommen out of the way. Even Septa Eglantine who never said a bad word about Joff seemed to be quietly keeping them away. The last time she'd actually seen her brother was at dinner with Grandfather where Joffrey had seemed cowed by Tywin. 

But today was Joffrey's name day, and Septa Eglantine said it was important that Myrcella and Tommen support their King on his special day. Joffrey might like that, but of course Myrcella could never be sure quite what Joffrey would like. 

"Do you want the pink or the violet gown, Princess?" 

Myrcella shook her head at both. "I don't care. It doesn't matter." 

Dot dressed her in the pink, and brushed Myrcella's hair until her head hurt. She thought to take Amaryllis with her for company, but in the end she left her doll propped up in the sitting room, waiting patiently for them to return. Tommen bounced on his feet, dressed in a jaunty red tunic trimmed with gold. 

"Good morrow, Ser Arys." Myrcella greeted the knight when he came to fetch them. She took his proffered arm while Tommen had to trail behind them holding their Septa's hand. 

Ser Arys always had a smile for her, and today was no different. He looked quite dashing in his gold-thread embroidered tunic, and white silk cloak. 

"Who shall win the day's honors?" Myrcella asked. Septa Eglantine harrumphed behind them. She was not fond of idle gossip.  

"I will," answered the knight. "Yet I fear the triumph will have no savor. This will be a small field and poor. No more than two score will enter the lists, including squires and freeriders. There is small honor in unhorsing green boys." 

_Everyone's gone,_ Myrcella thought. But she did not voice it. They passed a long line of guardsmen in Lannister-red and lion-crested helms. They bowed to her and Tommen, and Myrcella curtseyed in response. 

The gallery and lists had been built in the outer bailey. The autumn air was fresh and sweet, but the tourney ground itself made for a poor sight indeed. Myrcella tensed. She feared that Joff had thought the same when he first saw it. There were hardly enough lords and ladies to fill half the seats. Most of the spectators milling around were guardsmen and gold cloaks. Nothing at all like the grandeur of the last tourney they held when Father was still alive. 

The paltry few nobles sat clustered near the royal canopy. Grey-faced Gyles Rosby was coughing into a square of pink silk. Lady Tanda was seated between her daughters, Lolly and Falyse. Lolly had her head on her mother's shoulder, while Falyse sat prim and stiff as an arrow. Jalabhar Xho was trying to make conversation with old Lord Rykker, but the man looked as if he were already half-asleep. 

Next to them, sat a nurse holding a babe in her lap dressed in silks. Myrcella supposed it must be Lady Ermesande who was set to wed cousin Tyrek in the coming weeks. A bride who could not walk on her own two feet or eat cake would make for a strange wedding. Of course it wasn't the wedding that was the point, but the marriage itself. Tyrek would be able to take over the managing of Hayford since the castle was bereft a lord. 

Joffrey sat under the fluttering crimson silks of the canopy with one leg indulgently thrown over the carved wooden arm of his chair. Uncle Tyrion sat behind him in the royal box toying with a silver cup. The golden hand on his chest glinted in the sun. The Hound stood at guard beside them, his hands resting on his sword belt. The white cloak of the Kingsguard was draped over his broad shoulders and fastened with a jeweled brooch, the snowy cloth looking somehow unnatural against his brown roughspun tunic and studded leather jerkin. 

"Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen," the Hound announced as Ser Arys brought them up to the dais. 

Joffrey was clad in a gilded breastplate with a roaring lion engraved on the chest. A heavy gold crown sat upon his curls made of intertwining antlers. It was studded with glinting rubies and black diamonds. Myrcella studied his face, searching for discontent. Joffrey barely glanced at her. 

"I pray you a lucky name day, brother." Myrcella executed her prettiest curtsy. 

Joffrey waved her off with a lazy, ring-studded hand. 

"Happy name day, Joff," chirped Tommen. Septa Eglantine curtsied, and then escorted Tommen into the box. 

"Pray pardon me, Your Grace. I must equip myself for the lists." Ser Arys waited for Joffrey's curt dismissal before leaving with a bow. 

Uncle Tyrion put down his cup when they came to sit beside him. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he smiled when he saw them. "Hello sweetlings." He kissed them, and Myrcella felt a bit better for him being there. 

Tommen was fixated on the men readying their horses. "Uncle Tyrion, did you hear? I'm to ride in the tourney today. Mother said I could." 

"Good man," said Tyrion. 

Joffrey craned his head back, catching wind of their discussion. " _I_ will decide who rides in the King's tourney. It's my tourney." 

Myrcella's breath caught as Tommen's face began to crumple. "But Mother said-"

_"-Mother said,"_ mimicked Joffrey. "Is it  _Mother's_ decision who rides in my tourney?" 

"But she said-"

"She did say." Myrcella's heart was pounding. It wasn't just fear simmering low in her belly, but  _anger._ She was angry. Tommen had been speaking of nothing but riding in the tourney for days. How dare Joff try to take this away from their brother for his own amusement. He was ruining it, just like he ruined everything. 

"You sound like a squalling babe," said Joffrey, turning away from them. "Stop being childish."

"We're children," said Myrcella. Joffrey's green eyes turned on her. They both had Mother's green eyes, but Joffrey's were sharp and cold like the edge of a blade. "We're supposed to be childish."

The Hound laughed behind them. "She has you there." 

Joffrey bristled, and Myrcella backtracked. _What would Sansa say to sway Joff?_ "Mother said that Tommen should ride against the straw man," Myrcella said in a neutral tone. "It would be very generous of you on your name day to let Tommen take part in your tourney." 

Joffrey studied her, as if he could see Myrcella's intentions written on her skin. She stared back until he sank back into his chair. "Let Tommen make a fool of himself amongst this field of gnats. I am a generous king." 

Tommen squealed in excitement, and wriggled back into his seat to watch the tourney. 

"King Joffrey the Generous," mused Tyrion. "Shall that be your legacy moniker? It's very fitting." 

"Shut up, Uncle," Joffrey snapped. "No one wants to hear the drunken ramblings of a dwarf."

Tyrion smiled at Joffrey, and saluted him with his cup. Myrcella knew what drunk looked like -  _glassy eyes, red-faced, pungent smell, Father's hands on Essie's skirts_ \- but Uncle Tyrion didn't look anything like that. 

The trumpets blared, and Joff turned his attention to the field. "Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard," a herald called. 

Ser Boros entered from the west side of the yard, clad in green-plated armor trimmed with gold. His white cloak billowed behind him, clasped with lion brooch. He mounted a milk-white charger with a flowing grey mane.

“Ser Hobber of House Redwyne, of the Arbor,” sang the herald.

Ser Hobber trotted in from the east, riding a black stallion caparisoned in burgundy and blue. His lance was striped in the same colors, and his shield bore the grape cluster sigil of his House. House Redwyne was sworn to the Reach, Myrcella knew that. She wondered what the twins thought of Uncle Renly’s alliance with the Tyrells.

At a signal from the master of revels, the combatants couched their lances and put their spurs to their mounts. There were shouts from the watching guardsmen and the lords and ladies in the gallery. The knights came together in the center of the yard with a great shock of wood and steel. The white lance and the striped one exploded in splinters within a second of each other. Hobber Redwyne reeled at the impact, yet somehow managed to keep his seat. Wheeling their horses about at the far end of the lists, the knights tossed down their broken lances and accepted replacements from the squires. Ser Horas Redwyne, Ser Hobber’s twin, shouted encouragement to his brother. But on their second pass Ser Boros swung the point of his lance to strike Ser Hobber in the chest, driving him from the saddle to crash resoundingly to the earth. Ser Horas cursed and ran out to help his battered brother from the field.

“Poorly ridden,” declared Joffrey.

Joff wasn't riding in the tourney, Myrcella noticed. They'd all be terrified to lay a hand on him. 

"Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard," came the herald's cry. Wide white wings ornamented Ser Balon’s greathelm, and black and white swans fought on his shield. “And Symon of House Buckwell!”

“Look at that oaf,” Joffrey hooted, loud enough for half the yard to hear.

“He’s only a squire,” Myrcella said in alarm. Symon Buckwell, a mere squire, and a newly made squire at that, was having trouble managing the lance, the shield, and the horse all at once. And Ser Balon was a knight of the Kingsguard.

Septa Eglantine made the sign of the Mother, and prayed quietly. Joffrey leaned forward in anticipation as the knights readied for the charge.

Symon didn’t seem to know how to hold his shield as he urged his horse forward. Ser Balon’s point struck the blazon square with little effort. Symon dropped his lance, fought for balance, and lost. One foot caught in the stirrup as he fell, and the runaway charger dragged the youth to the end of the lists, head bouncing against the ground. Joffrey screeched with laughter.

Myrcella was quite sure the poor boy was dead, but when they untangled him from his horse, Symon was found bloodied, but alive.

“Tommen we picked the wrong foe for you,” snorted Joffrey. “The straw knight jousts better than that one.”

Next came Ser Horas Redwyne’s turn. He fared better than his twin, vanquishing an elderly knight whose mount was bedecked with silver griffins against a striped blue-and-white field. Splendid as he looked, the old man made a poor contest of it.

Joffrey lip began to curl. “This is a feeble show.”

“Lothor Brune, freeride in the service of the Crown,” cried the herald. “Ser Dontos the Red, of House Hollard.”

The freerider, a small man in dented plate without device, duly appeared at the west end of the yard, but of his opponent there was no sign. Finally a chestnut stallion trotted into view in a swirl of crimson and scarlet silks, but Ser Dontos was not on it. The knight appeared a moment later, cursing and staggering, clad in breastplate and plumed helm and nothing else. He chased his horse about on pale, skinny legs. The watchers roared and shouted insults. 

Septa Eglantine shrieked, and covered Myrcella's eyes. She pried her Septa's fingers away in time to see Uncle Tyrion shaking his head and cursing. 

Catching his horse by the bridle, Ser Dontos tried to mount, but the animal would not stand still and the knight was so drunk that his bare foot kept missing the stirrup. By then the crowd was howling with laughter. But Joffrey was not laughing.

Finally Ser Dontos the Red gave it up for a bad job, sat down in the dirt, and removed his plumed helm. “I lose,” he shouted. “Fetch me some wine.”

Fury rolled off Joffrey like thunder. He stood. “A cask from the cellars! I’ll see him drowned in it!”

The crowd laughed, but there was a current of unease running through them. Ser Dontos was still smiling like a fool, his head lolling on his neck. But Joffrey had never been the joking type. 

Uncle Tyrion sprang to his feet. "A fine jest, Your Grace," he called. Loud enough so that his voice carried. "Truly side-splitting." He began clapping, and the crowd followed suit with a smattering of applause. 

"Do I jest, Uncle?" Joffrey spoke softly, the whisper of a warning. "GUARDS! Seize that drunken fool!" 

Two gold cloaks appeared, and hauled Ser Dontos to his feet. The man was still giggling, dangling like a pig on a spit between them. The horrible sound of it echoed in the deafening silence of a hundred souls holding their breath. 

"Dog. Fetch me a cask." 

Terror seemed to sober Ser Dontos. The grin slipped from his paling face. He began to struggle between the guards, twisting as a fly would twist in a spider's web.

Uncle Tyrion scrambled indelicately over the royal box to seize Joffrey's shoulder. The King threw him off with a look of disgust. " _Your Grace,"_ hissed Uncle Tyrion. "You must consider the implications of this display. Your Kingship should be more defined by the mercy you show than the fear you incite. Frighten the man a little, and then grant him public clemency. He will continue on as your loyal servant, and it will show a little power - not cruelty - to those watching. You will prove yourself deserving of their fealty and respect."  

"Don't you dare touch me," snarled Joffrey.

Myrcella was sure he hadn't heart any of what Uncle Tyrion had said. Her brother was looking greedily toward the barrel that the Hound was dragging to the middle of the field. Ser Dontos began to scream. 

"He asked for a drink! See if the Arbor Gold is to his taste!"

Myrcella found herself on her feet, gripping the edge of the box hard enough to hurt. Septa Eglantine's fingers were scrabbling at the back of her dress, trying to pull her back, but Myrcella did not budge. 

"Stop him," Myrcella begged, speaking so that only Uncle Tyrion could hear her. He acted as if she hadn't spoken, and stared straight ahead with a face made of stone. 

Joffrey laughed uproariously as the Hound pried open the barrel, and the guards forced Ser Dontos' head inside. His arms and legs thrashed about in the most dreadful way. They let him up for a moment, and the wine streamed down his ruddy cheeks like tears. 

"Again," Joffrey commanded. He was still laughing. "Give the man what he asked for!"

Ser Dontos' cries cut off, and they did not sound again. The crowd watched in muted horror as the knight shuddered - once, twice, thrice - and then went limp. The guardsmen let him go. The body was left hanging over the barrel. The Hound turned to Joffrey, waiting for his next command. 

The silence that followed was raw and gaping until it was split by the high, thin wail of Lady Eremestead. The wet nurse shushed the babe frantically, pressing the girl against her breast to smother the cries. 

The master of revels crept up to the dais. "Your Grace, shall I summon a new challenger for Brune, or proceed with the next tilt?" 

"These are gnats, not knights," sneered Joff. "I'll suffer no more fools playing at jousting. Unless our challengers wish to fight my dog. To the death that is." When no one stepped forward, Joffrey scoffed and pointed to Ser Dontos' body. "Remove this mess. The tourney is over." He strode off, the Hound and Ser Boros trailing behind in his wake.  

The remaining riders came out to watch as the gold cloaks dragged the body of Ser Dontos' away. Dirt was shoveled over the mix of wine, sweat, and spittle soaking into the ground. There was a quiet murmuring emanating from the crowd. They dispersed in little groups of twos and threes. 

“I was s-supposed to r-ride against the s-strawman,” Tommen was blubbering behind her. “I was s-supposed to r-ride-”

“Hush, sweet prince.” Septa Eglantine rubbed Tommen's back as he cried. Her face was pale and creased like the folds in parchment. 

“You can ride in the next tourney,” said Myrcella. “We’ll throw a grand party for _your_ name day, won’t that be lovely? We’ll eat strawberry cake, and you can ride your own pony. I promise.”

"Perhaps we can fetch a treat from the kitchen for the time being." Septa Eglantine scooped Tommen up. He buried his face in her neck. She held out her hand for Myrcella, but Myrcella shook her head and took a step back. She couldn't go back into the Holdfast, not yet. It smelled too much like death. 

"Not to worry, Septa." Uncle Tyrion put his hand on her shoulder. "I will escort the Princess back to the Holdfast." Septa Eglantine hemmed and hawed before relenting. She left with Tommen.

Myrcella could feel Uncle Tyrion's eyes on her face, but she continued looking ahead. It seemed like he was waiting for her to speak, to comment on what had transpired. 

"You were very brave just now, my sweet," said Uncle Tyrion. "I'm sorry you had to witness such a thing."

Myrcella pinched the red silk of the canopy curtains between her thumb and forefinger. It was silky to the touch, and she ran her hand down it. "It was foolish of Joffrey to do that. Foolish and cruel." 

"Yes. It was." 

Myrcella continued to fiddle with the silk, looking away from her uncle. "Why didn't you stop him?"  

Uncle Tyrion sighed. "With a charge like Joffrey, I must choose my battles carefully. Too many tugs of the rein, and the leather may just... snap." 

"You're the Hand of the King." 

"Words on the wind, my dear. A title is only worth so much as others make of it." He paused, as if weighing his words. "And my title is a particularly dangerous one to hold."

Myrcella's breath caught. "Joff wouldn't hurt you." 

"No, no," said Uncle Tyrion. "That was not what I meant to imply. Forgive me, child, I forget myself. It is not right to trouble you with such things. Let me take you back to your rooms." 

Myrcella didn't move. The wind ruffled her curls, and she tipped her face up to the midday light. "What shall happen to us now?"  

"Only time will tell," said Uncle Tyrion softly. "And Lady Time holds her secrets oh so close." 

\-------

It was dark when Tyrion pushed his way into the Queen's sitting room, the air thick and stale. Two of Cersei's maids were scuttling around in the low light. They stowed their work when Tyrion entered the room, and drifted towards the bedchamber door as if to block him with their skirts. 

"I've come to call on my sister." Tyrion stepped over to the curtains, and pulled the long, velvet rope. Light flooded the room, and one of the girls lifted a hand to shade her eyes. 

"Her Grace is sleeping, my lord." 

Tyrion took the un-offered seat, and pulled a tray of glasses towards him. "The King's name day, and the Queen is sleeping?" 

"Yes, my lord." 

Tyrion considered this, and then held out his glass. He waited.  _Power is power,_ Cersei was fond of saying. He tipped his head to the side. Waiting. 

After a pause, the dark-haired girl fetched a bottle of wine, and poured it into his cup. Tyrion sipped it, and then set it down. "Pour another for the Queen. She'll be wanting a drink when she's risen. Perhaps we'll have a toast to the King's health." 

"The Queen is not to be disturbed."  

"Alas, I have disturbing news to share with her," said Tyrion. "And rather enchanting news as well. Tantalize her with that, and we will see if her mind is changed. She will not be so pleased to find herself feeling... shall we say... obsolete?"

The maids glanced at each other, and the elder gave an almost imperceptible nod. Tyrion leaned back, confident in his victory. 

He waited until Cersei appeared with hooded eyes, her long hair hanging loose down her back. Had she really been sleeping? That was unlikely. Upon closer inspection, her lips were swollen, and too pink. The skin on her neck was a bit flushed. The crease of a pillow was imprinted on her cheek. She drummed her long nails on the table, staring at him with little contained disdain.  

"What do you want?"

Tyrion tsked. "You ought not to be so suspicious of your own dear brother. I come bearing news as the King's Hand. There are things I wish to... discuss." 

“Things you may bring before the small council when we meet, which last I checked, is not due to take place in my private quarters.”

“The small council does live up to its name nowadays, we are but a paltry few,” mused Tyrion. “But no matter. I thought you’d wish this news to grace your ears sooner rather than later. Viserys Targaryen is dead.”

Cersei leaned forward, her eyes alight with interest. "How?" 

"The Dothraki are rather poor kingmakers," said Tyrion. "They mistook his requests for a crown too literally. He burned to death when they upended a pot of molten gold overtop his head."

"And the girl?" 

"The girl," Tyrion chuckled.  _That girl is the mother of dragons._ "What harm can a Dothraki broodmare do us now? If she hasn't yet died in this childbirth, she might for the next. If she lives she'll spend the remainder of her bitter days running ragged in the grasslands." Tyrion swirled the wine in his glass. "This is the end of the Targaryens. It took twenty-odd years longer than anyone expected, but it is done."

_"Is there any word on our lingering Targaryen?" Tyrion let the question slip out casually, still, he was not surprised when Varys eyebrows raised in suspicion._

_"Only whispers, my lord," said Varys. "And some whispers must be taken with a grain of salt."_

_"Aren't you the master of those whispers?"_

_Varys shrugged. "There are limits to my efforts. Any... particular notions you might be listening for?"_

_"Oh, I think that should become apparent with time."_

"Joff should be told," said Cersei. "This will please him." 

"Oh yes. The King will be most pleased. Gods know how essential it is to keep the King feeling  _pleased._ Otherwise he might burn the whole city to the ground in a fit." Tyrion continued before Cersei could retort. "You missed quite the show today at your son's tourney. The few remaining nobles deigning to publicly support us were forced to watch the Hound drown a man in a barrel of wine." 

Cersei glanced away. "Who was the man?" 

Tyrion sighed. "You ask if that matters a whit. I'm far more concerned with the display than the life of the man. It was Ser Dontos the Red, if you must know. A fool and a drunkard, but the message of brutality this sends is far more dangerous than having one more drunk wandering the Keep." 

"A King's subjects are his to do with what he wishes." 

Tyrion could feel a vein throbbing in his neck. "Pray tell me this. Why exactly should Joffrey's subjects have him as their king? We have no dragons to strike fear into the hearts of men. No legacy of rule, or acts of gods cementing our preeminence. They don't expect benevolence from us, they hardly expect humanity. What tethers them to us?" 

"Sheep should not _question_." 

 "Regardless of should or shouldn't," said Tyrion. "I am far more interested in the _realities_  of weathering Joffrey's tenuous reign through a wartime transition. Joff is not only your child anymore, he is a King. A king Father is planning on fighting a war for. I have no patience for these fits of madness -" 

"Joff is not mad," growled Cersei. Tyrion fancied the hair on her neck stood up, like a mother lioness. 

"Then he is cruel," said Tyrion. "Do not play these games of words with me, Sister. We are well beyond that. Your younger son is in tears, your daughter badly shaken. All this by the actions of a King who by all rights should want for nothing. He acted like a monster made flesh today." 

"You're nothing but a stupid, bitter little man," said Cersei softly. "It's all a game, and if you were even a player, you would understand that. God only knows what trick you played on Father for him to pin that hand on your chest, but my son is King. Your power is illusory." 

Reasoning with Cersei was like speaking to a brick wall in a labyrinth. The only way through would be with a hammer. And it was not yet the time. 

"If I were capable of tricking Father, I'd be emperor of the world by now. You know better than to sell the great Tywin Lannister short. He might take offense to share such a trait with me." 

"You think you're so funny." 

"So people keep saying," hummed Tyrion. "I prefer clever to funny really. It has a better ring to it. But I didn't come here to offer you riddles. If I were able to solve this dilemma myself, I wouldn't be in your sitting room interrupting your more... pleasurable pursuits." 

She balked. "Whatever you mean to insinuate - "

"- I mean to insinuate nothing," said Tyrion. "Nothing at all. I came here for your help, sweet sister. Not to quarrel. You wanted power? Take it now, by taking your son in hand. Give the little ones affection, but take to Joffrey with the sharper kiss of chastisement. It will only do him well. He is far too young and... energetic to rule effectively. Joff still trusts you - much more than he trusts me - and you can use that to your advantage. Help me keep our bloody head on our shoulders a little while longer." He leaned forward. "But you do well to keep your affairs in the bedroom under wraps. Our King would not be pleased to find you in bed with a poor man's Jaime."

That unbalanced her. Her eyes flicked to the bedroom, and Tyrion wondered if she had stuffed poor Lancel into the wardrobe or under the bed. "How dare you spy on me." 

Tyrion smiled his ugliest smile. "I only had my suspicions." 

Her face went red. He always got ahead of himself while sparring with Cersei. She made it far too easy, and when she was riled, she burned as bright and hot as wildfyre. 

"When I find out what you're plotting it will be the end of you." Cersei's promise was as soft as a poisoned kiss. "In all ways." 

And Tyrion thought back to the cold, dank halls of the vault under Rhaenys’ Hill where just days ago he’d cradled the fat, clay grapefruit Hallyne the pyromancer had placed gingerly in his hands. He'd held the end of the world in his palm.

_“Thick,” Tyrion murmured, the dim light making it hard to see the green-tinge of the liquid. He remembered the flames that had engulfed Blackwater Bay. There was no mistaking the color when it burned._

_“That is from the cold, my lord. As it warms, the substance will flow more easily, like lamp oil.”_

_“Is that so?”_

_“Wisdom Malliard believes we shall be able to provide a full ten thousand jars, as was promised the queen. I concur._

_“You will see that any updates on the acolytes’ progress be delivered to me. The Queen has quite enough to worry about.”_

_“As you say, my lord.”_

Tyrion gave Cersei his shrewdest smile. “I will hold you to that, sweet sister.”

\-------

Myrcella was already in her nightdress when she went looking for Amaryllis. To the best of her knowledge, she had left the doll at the breakfast table before the tourney. And it wasn't like toys to wander off on their own. Septa Eglantine had already retired, the maids had gone down to the kitchens. Myrcella crept around the dark sitting room looking on her own. 

Whoever had decorated this room had a fondness for drapes. Everything was done in shades of red and gold, something Myrcella had never paid much mind to before. Mother must have selected the patterns and fabrics, Father was hardly a fan of these colors. 

It was only a little while until Myrcella found her. 

Amaryllis was lying on her back under the windowsill, half-hidden by the curtains. When Myrcella went to pick up the doll, her delicate ceramic face with the painted rosebud mouth was in pieces. The right eye had caved in, leaving a gaping maw of a hole. One ear was missing. Deep cracks marred the remaining cheek. Myrcella dropped the doll back down in horror. The broken china clacked against the floor. It looked as if the doll had been smashed against the wall. 

"'Cella?"

At the sound of Tommen's voice, Myrcella threw the curtains back over the mess of the doll, and turned around. Tommen was rocking on his heels. His long white nightshirt brushed the tops of his feet. 

"What is it Tommen?" Myrcella was proud of her steady words. 

Her brother's eyes and nose were still red from his crying jag earlier. He always stayed blotchy for so long when he cried. "I can't find Lady Cat. She's not in my bed chamber." 

"Oh." Myrcella's breath left her. "Tommen - "

"She usually sleeps right on my pillow," said Tommen. He lifted the tablecloth. "I can't go to bed without her." 

"Maybe she went on a walkabout," said Myrcella. She pulled at her brother's elbow, fearful of what they might find if they kept looking. "You can sleep with me tonight. We'll look for more kittens tomorrow." 

Tommen huffed. "I want  _my_ kitten - ah!" He was crouched down next to the settee, and reached his hand under. "Here, Lady, here." He looked up at Myrcella. "She's scared." 

Myrcella dropped down next to him, and together they peered under the settee. Tommen's kitten was curled in a ball next to the carved wooden leg. It's eyes were heavily dilated. 

"Come to bed, Lady," Tommen coaxed. "Let's go." Impatient, he grabbed the kitten, and dragged her out. The kitten flailed and swiped at him before diving out of his arms and running into Tommen's bedchamber. "Ow!"

"Did she hurt you?"

She examined Tommen's finger. It was red and raised, but there was no blood. Tommen stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked on it. "What's wrong with her?" he asked around his finger. 

"Maybe she knew you were upset?" Myrcella suggested. Relief was flowing through her, cool and heady. "Go see if she's settled down." 

"Alright." 

She tried to kiss his head like Septa Eglantine would, but he squirmed away from her, and padded off to his room. Leaving Myrcella alone in the darkness. 

Before she went to bed, Myrcella pulled out an old nightdress and wrapped up Amaryllis and all her broken pieces. She hid the bundle next to Lady Camellia in the bottom of the chest. Carefully, so there were no sharp edges peeking out. She was really too old to be playing with dolls anyway.

All the world was dark. And so she went to bed. 


End file.
